


Thy Back to the Forest (and Thy Front to Us)

by PetraPan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, First Time, Frottage, Halloween, Hand Jobs, Incest, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-27 03:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8384749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraPan/pseuds/PetraPan
Summary: For the last three years in Stillwater, Oklahoma, children have disappeared—always five young girls, always on consecutive days, and always during the week of Halloween. By the day the Winchester's pull into town, Sam is enrolled for school, he’s stuck once more on research duty, and Dean already has a date. Sam juggles his new schoolwork, the case, and the ever-growing bitterness at the desire he feels for Dean as best as he can, but at some point he can no longer manage all three. With their father constantly absent and a nasty time constraint, Sam and Dean struggle to figure out who—or what—is taking young girls, just as they struggle to find the balance between brothers and something more.
Now with playlist!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was born last Halloween, about three days too late for me to write, edit, have multiple freak-outs about, and post. Coincidentally, the days of the week for when this story takes place (October 26-31, 1998) matched perfectly with 2015. This year? Not so much. This year, Monday is Wednesday, Tuesday is Thursday and so on. Bear with me, turn back the clock 365 days, and I hope you enjoy reading!
> 
> Title is shamelessly plucked from the folktale this story depicts. (I don't have a beta, but I try to be extremely thorough on my own. Let me know if I've missed anything!)
> 
> PS. I made a playlist that fits the story. Hope you enjoy listening to it while you read!

_**October 26, 1998. Monday evening.** _

 

_Monday’s suck,_ Sam thinks as he taps his pen impatiently upon the pale grain of the table. For such a small town, Oklahoma’s Stillwater Public Library was _huge_ , with tens of thousands of books to offer, and Sam’s resentment about not having the time to explore them all is prominent.

He glances idly about the room, taking in the couple holding hands with their heads bent together over a book; the cranky, old librarian who seems to watch everyone with one eye; the obvious college student who has no qualms about snoring on top of a huge textbook, hand still curled around his pencil. Part of him envies the student, and Sam scuffs his dirty shoes along the carpet in annoyance.

What he _needs_ to be doing in this library is researching for his history paper due at the beginning of next week, not poring over the mythology tomes and police reports his father had procured. Sam already has less time than the other students in his class to complete this project, and he’s so _tired_ of being on research duty. _Why can’t Dean do it?_ Sam scowls. _This monster or that, do the victims match the hunting habits and do they have anything in common… it’s exhausting._

He flips another page, not thoroughly reading but skimming for keywords, and kicks his legs out under the table. They’re restless, buzzing with his most recent growth spurt and make him ache.

A caption catches his eyes and he sits up, for once, his attention completely on the texts in front of him. His hands are on the pages of both the reports and the mythology book, eyes darting back and forth between the information.

“Slow feeding… hunts in pairs… yeah,” Sam mumbles as he blindly fishes for the phone in his book bag.

“Dad,” he says after a moment of ringing, “you said all the victims went missing and there were never signs of a struggle?”

John Winchester’s voice is crackly through the bad reception in the library. _“You find something?”_

“I think I may have,” Sam says and he cradles the phone between his cheek and shoulder to pick up the mythology book so his eyes can easier read the small, slanted handwriting.

“Vetala are venomous monsters. Usually they take the form of beautiful women that capture their victims and feed on them slowly for days,” he paraphrases. “They’re super strong and hunt in pairs.”

_“That would minimize a struggle; two against one,”_ John says quietly.

“And little girls are much more likely to trust a woman than a man," Sam agrees. "The only thing that doesn’t fit is that here it says Vetala usually go after grown men.” He sets the book down, switches the phone from right ear to left. “Maybe they got a taste for something different?” he wonders aloud.

_“Did the book say how to kill them?”_

Sam frowns at his father’s impatient tone and glances up to see the librarian glaring at him. Assuming it’s for being on the phone inside, Sam grimaces but he looks again at the book. He softens his volume.

“I’m not seeing anything.” Sam closes the mythology volume and leans back in his seat. “This book seems to have just general facts…”

“ _Keep looking. I need that information, Sam.”_

The line goes dead and for a moment Sam thinks he lost service. He takes the phone away from his ear and says “Dad?” His screen tells him there isn’t a call taking place and Sam sighs, realizing that his father must have hung up in a hurry. He shoves the phone back in his bag.

“Nice work, Sammy,” a thick voice whispers and Sam jumps, spinning his head to look at his brother.

“Dean!” he hisses accusingly.

“You gotta pay more attention, little brother.” Dean slaps him on the back and ignores Sam’s dirty look with a grin. “C’mon,” he says with a jerk of his head. “Dad wants us home before dark.”

“What time is it?” Sam asks as he stacks the library books at the edge of the table and slings his book bag over his head to cross his chest.

Dean watches him, amused, before answering. “6:30. And put on your jacket,” Dean reminds. Sam rolls his eyes as he shrugs it on.

Sam knows it doesn’t seem that late but October evenings in Oklahoma were still chilly, colder still as the sun dropped. _Not to mention the kids getting snatched,_ Sam thinks. They had all been female, but one could never be too careful.

The ride back to the motel is quiet, save for Dean’s music. Sam does his best to ignore it. When they arrive and key open their room, their father is waiting.

“Dad?” Dean questions as he closes the door.

“I’m going to talk with the Walkers, see if they’ll tell me anything interesting about their daughter’s abduction,” John says abruptly and holds his hand out for the car keys. Immediately Dean drops them into his waiting palm. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“You want me to come along?” Dean asks eagerly but John just shakes his head and opens the door.

“Their daughter is just the first," He starts, and looks pointedly at Sam. "We need to know where it is hiding and how to kill it." He turns back to Dean long enough to remind him to keep the door locked before leaving in the blink of an eye.

Dean stares at the door for a moment, as if debating going outside and insisting he come along. Sam drags his bag off over his head and flops on his bed. He sees Dean make an aborted gesture with his hand, then shake his head and turn for the bathroom.

He doesn’t close the door all the way so Sam can easily hear the shower turn on, hear the clank of a pocketknife hit the counter, the heavy thud of Dean’s jeans. Sam glances at the door and the inch-wide view it affords him, drawn by the noises he’s heard a million times and sees a sliver of Dean’s tanned shoulder become blurred by the shower curtain.

Sam forces himself to look away and takes a few deep breaths to clear his head. He scoots back against the headboard and withdraws the history book he’d guiltily snagged from the library. He reads for about 10 minutes making notes on the motel notepad when the water shuts off and Dean exits, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You got somewhere to be?” Sam asks without looking up from his book.

“Hot date tonight,” Dean grins and digs through his duffel with one hand.

_It doesn’t matter,_ Sam thinks, knowing that if Dean had made any plans actually worth keeping then he wouldn’t have asked Dad if he could tag along. _It’s not important,_ yet it still sticks like a chicken-bone in his throat. Dean pulls out a shirt, sniffs the armpits, and deems it worthy before making his way back to the bathroom. He pauses at the door and turns to look at Sam.

“Whatch’ya got there?” His grin shifts, mischievous now, and he switches directions to head for Sam.

“A book, Dean.” Sam refuses to look up. “You should try looking at one sometime.”

“Where’d it come from?”

“Libraries, typically.”

“I thought only official library members could rent books.”

Sam squirms a little, uncomfortable, and flicks his eyes up to his brother’s smirking face. “I’m gonna take it back tomorrow,” he says defensively, looking at the words on the pages again. He has no idea what they are saying at the moment.

“Well, what is it?” Dean shifts a little closer and the smell of his shower gel is intense, invading all of Sam’s senses. He holds his breath and doesn’t stare at the damp skin of Dean’s stomach, he doesn’t look at the hand clenching the towel in a loose knot at his hip. He doesn’t look, he _doesn’t._

“The War of 1812,” Dean murmurs.

“It’s just something for school,” Sam says quietly.

“Sounds riveting.” Dean snorts and backs off. Sam lets out his breath, relieved that Dean is walking away.

He tries hard to concentrate on the book again, but he can hear Dean humming in the bathroom as he puts on his clothes and combs his hair.

“Who is it this time?” Sam calls conversationally and hopes his voice sounds normal.

“Sarah, from your school. Junior, blonde hair, green eyes, _killer_ legs.” Dean comes out once more and sits on the edge of his bed to pull on socks, then his boots. “I ran into her when we registered you.”

“Why don’t you go after someone your own age?” Sam asks, chancing a glance at Dean. He wishes he’d kept his eyes on the history book.

Dean had picked the maroon button up and left it undone, a Zeppelin shirt showing underneath. His jeans are dark and ride comfortably on his hips. He doesn’t have many different pairs so Sam knows they are the ones with the worn knees and ass. They look awfully good on him.

Dean shrugs and shoots Sam a sly grin. “Younger is more fun.” Sam tries to ignore the hot ball that swells in his stomach. Dean stands at the car horn from outside and pats his pockets.

“How do I look?”

“Awful,” Sam lies.

“Bitch.” It is without heat and makes Sam smile.

Dean slides his arms into the too-large, brown leather jacket and his hand is on the front door when he looks over his shoulder at his little brother, awkwardly long and stretched out on the length of the bed. He grins once more and says “don’t wait up” before leaving the room.

Sam stares at the door like Dean had when their father left and mutters, “Jerk.” He wasn’t going to think about Sarah and her _killer legs_ , or about what she and Dean would do. He shoves it away, out of his mind, and buries his nose in his book.

 

 

Sam isn’t sure when he fell asleep, but the book is open on his chest when he wakes to the quiet sound of the door unlocking. He knows it isn’t his father; Sam isn’t expecting him until closer to sunrise when the bar he’d immediately found in town closes. A moment of panic creeps into Sam because there's no way he can reach for the knife under his pillow without being spotted, but when he recognizes the scent of Dean’s shower gel, he relaxes. The door shuts behind Dean quietly and Sam doesn’t let Dean know he’s awake. Instead, he takes the rare opportunity to watch Dean move silently through the room from between his lashes.

Dean sighs, kicks off his boots and puts his wallet, phone, and knife on the bedside table before looking at Sam.

Sam stirs a little as if asleep and closes his eyes discreetly as possible with the movement, just in case. He feels the book be lifted from his chest and hears it set softly down on the table. After a moment, a blanket is spread over him and Sam is oddly touched at the gesture. The lights go out and Sam turns restlessly, presenting his back to Dean. He hears Dean get undressed and slide into bed. The covers pull a little, trapped under the weight of his body but Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He hears Dean sigh with contentment.

Bitterly, Sam wonders if Dean had a good time.

A few minutes of quiet pass when Sam registers a sound. It’s a kind of slip-slide, making wet squelching noises that are accompanied by Dean sighing, different than when he’d crawled under the sheets. Sam stiffens on the bed, forced to listen in silence while Dean touches himself.

Their bed creaks a little and it’s hard not to put movements to the noises. An arch of his back, the toss of his head, the sound of sheets catching on his legs as he slides them further apart. He sighs, he groans, all soft, barely there noises that can’t be helped because it feels too good.

A shocking thrill races down Sam’s spine and settles hotly in the pit of his stomach, filling him with equal parts arousal and shame. Dean is only a foot away. Sam’s cock begins to fill and harden, and he bites the inside of his cheek, digging his nails harshly into his palms to keep from reaching for it.

Dean’s noises are getting quicker, more airy, and the movement of his hand is increasing. The bed shifts as Dean tilts his head back, arches his back with pleasure. Sam can tell by the dirty, slick sound that Dean is so close, almost there, _almost…_ He moans and the sound dies half made in his throat. Sam can’t stop his own hands from moving down, stretching under the waistband of his jeans and letting his fingertips play with the damp tip of his cock. His fingers are wet from the sounds Dean had made and they slide over the sensitive head, guilty and so, _so_ good. Sam resists the urge to sob out his own need. He waits for Dean’s breath to calm down. He waits for Dean to clean himself up with whatever is handy. He waits for Dean to fall asleep, he waits and waits and waits. Sam's patience is agonizing.

When he’s sure that Dean’s breathing is slow and even, he carefully removes himself from the bed and hurries to the bathroom, undoing his button and fly on the way, to jerk hard and fast. He leans over the toilet, one hand smearing his own slick on the wall and keeping him standing as his hand flies over his skin. Anticipation had built from listening to Dean, and the noises his brother made play over in his mind like a broken record. A few strokes and a slide of his palm over the tip of his cock has Sam trembling through an orgasm. It feels like a punch, leaves him breathless and wounded. Dean’s name is sharp on his tongue and he gasps it out along with his shaky breath.

He stays like that for a moment, one hand on the wall, one hand on his softening dick, trying to reset his lungs and reign himself in. Embarrassed and ashamed at his lack of self-control, he washes his hands and uses some damp toilet paper to wipe the wall down. He flushes it and doesn’t look at Dean’s sleeping form when he quietly peels off his jeans before climbing back into bed. He turns down the covers but keeps the blanket Dean had laid over him on top.

When he’s lying there and his heart rate is back to normal, he allows himself to look at his brother. Sam marvels at the loose curl of Dean’s fist against the pillow. _This is the same hand that messes up my hair sometimes, that spars with me, that fires a gun._  Sam tells himself that he doesn’t wonder what that hand would feel like on his skin. He balls his own into fists and tucks them under his body to resist the urge to stroke a fingertip along the calloused skin.

Sam presses his eyes shut and waits a long time to fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_**October 27, 1998. Tuesday Morning.**_

 

 

When he wakes up, it’s to Dean shaking him. The memory of last night strikes him suddenly, and Sam jerks away from his touch. Dean frowns slightly, but only says that he’ll be late for school if he doesn’t get up right now. His voice is quiet, though, with an obvious look towards the other bed where their father is snoring.

Sam scrambles out of the covers.

"Why didn't you wake me earlier?" Sam snaps, stepping into his pants.

"I tried, a few times." Dean grins at him as Sam yanks on a shirt. "You looked real cute with your mouth hanging open while you slept."

Embarrassed, Sam mumbles, "Shut up, Dean," on his way to the bathroom.

 _Don’t think about last night, don’t think about last night_ , he tells himself in the mirror as he combs his hair. The place where his come-slicked hand had been spread out on the wall is like a fucking neon sign to him, though the area is perfectly clean. He brushes his teeth and pushes a little too hard, because when he spits there is blood in the sink.

Sam sighs and leaves the bathroom, quickly shoving his school things into his bag.

“Sam,” Dean calls softly, “breakfast.”

“It’s only toast,” he says. “Don’t want you thinking it’s always gonna be caviar and poached eggs.” It’s an awkward joke, but the nasty truth is underlined. They’re short on food and money.

Sam snorts as he takes the offered paper plate. “You don’t even know what caviar is,” and he finally looks at his brother through more than sleep blurred eyes.

Dean is wearing the jeans from last night and boots, unlaced, but he doesn’t have a shirt on. Sam blushes suddenly, discomfited by the faint little outlines where teeth bit down at Dean’s collarbone, the slight discoloration on the side of his neck where Sarah must have latched on and sucked. Sam thinks she must have really dug her teeth in for the marks to still be showing, and he's stunned by the unbidden image of Dean, head thrown back and mouth agape with pleasure at the feeling.

“I’ll drive you,” Dean offers, oblivious to Sam’s distress at the marks on his body. He grabs a thick flannel and throws it on without buttoning it before heading out the door with Sam in tow.

Dean hisses a sharp intake of breath at the cold morning. “Jesus’ tits!”

“That’s what you get for wearing no clothes,” Sam says testily.

“What are you talking about?” Dean scoffs as they slide into the Impala. He turns her on and revs the engine a couple times to get her going. “I’ve got clothes on.”

“Barely.” Sam sullenly keeps his eyes trained on the passenger window.

“What’s with you this morning?”

“Nothing,” Sam insists, but he notices how sharp his tone is and he tries to gentle it. “Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

“You, uh… you okay?” There’s something in Dean’s voice as they pull out of the motel lot and head towards the school. It’s clumsy, like he’s not used to asking the question—odd, since Sam thinks of Dean as a professional worrier. Sam shakes it off.

“Yeah,” he sighs out. “I’m good. Just a weird night.”

Dean looks at him suspiciously from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t comment further.

When they make it to the school, Sam doesn’t say goodbye. He slams the door shut behind him and Dean immediately rolls the window down as Sam walks away.

“Hey!” Sam turns at the call.

“You sure you’re okay?”

With the way Dean is leaning to see out of the passenger window, the unbuttoned shirt falls open and reveals the pink indentations from Sarah’s teeth. A fresh wave of jealousy rolls through Sam and he says “yeah” curtly before turning away and quickening his steps.

Dean frowns at his brother’s receding form, but waits until Sam is inside before pulling away.

Sam watches the Impala turn and leave from behind the tinted glass. Something sharp and hot twists in his throat and he slams a fist against the closest locker just as the homeroom bell goes off. He sighs at the throb in his hand and the knowledge that he’ll be counted late to class.

Still he can’t bring himself to care. He hardly remembers any of his classes that day, mind too occupied with images of Dean with the faceless Sarah, her mouth fixed on his neck and fingers scratching down his back as he arches and bucks into her warm body. He wonders how much Dean kissed her—if he had lain with her after and stroked her hair, mouthing at her sensitive skin until another round was a possibility.

Sam scowls all though History, his lunch period, and English. He manages to make it through the entire school day without hearing a single word his teachers have said.

When the last bell rings he doesn’t call Dean to pick him up; Sam decides to walk to the public library a few blocks away and return the book he had stolen. _Borrowed,_ he mentally corrects himself. _I borrowed it._

It’s chilly outside for the early afternoon, though the sun adds a tiny bit of warmth on the windless day. Sam shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket and walks briskly to get his blood flowing. As he goes, his thoughts drift back to Dean. They naturally seem to do that, much to Sam’s frustration.

He doesn’t fully understand why he’d been so irritated at Dean that morning. He blames part of it on jealousy and wayward hormones. The other part is buried deep in his chest, his best kept secret.

It can’t ever be admitted to out loud and it's not something easily forgiven, he knows this. He knows it’s sick and wrong and immoral. It wasn't a sudden thing, either, and Sam frowns at a rock he kicks over and over as he walks towards the library, now in sight. This was something that grew and grew until it was too big for his body to hold. It’s a living thing within him and Sam finds it more and more difficult to keep it buried with each date his brother goes on.

Sam trudges up the steps to the library. Inside, he lets the coziness of the building wash over him and sink into his skin, defrosting his face.

The old librarian, whose name Sam never remembers to check, is watching him quietly from where she stamps returned books at her desk. She looks at him as if she knows the book is hidden under his jacket. With guilt sliding down his neck, he smiles nervously at her as he passes then quickens his pace to the section where the book belongs.

As he slides it back on the shelf, the phone in his backpack rings loudly. He scrambles to get it out of his pack, mumbling an apology to the disapproving young man standing next to him. He reads the number ID and recognizes it as Dean’s cell. He hits the END button a little too harshly and immediately sets the ring volume to zero. Feeling justified in ignoring his brother, he throws the phone back in his bag, shelves his feelings for Dean as well, and goes to snag a table to do homework at.

He sits for an hour, outlining his paper and writing the small snippets that come to him, when suddenly his skin prickles and the door to the library bursts open. Sam looks up to see Dean making a beeline for him and looking mad as hell.

“The fuck?” Dean demands when he reaches Sam’s table.

“What.” Sam’s face and tone are carefully blank.

“You didn’t pick up.”

“I didn’t wanna talk to you,” Sam shrugs.

“You answer the goddamn phone when I call.” Dean accompanies the words with a loud slam of his palm on the table. Several people look up and over at them, including the Head Librarian, and Sam shoves up and out of his chair. He’s eye-level with Dean and has the vague thought that it’s strange to be almost as tall as your brother when so many years span you apart. He speaks softly, setting the tone so no one else can hear, but the volume does nothing to hide the animosity.

“Why don’t you call one of your many fucking girlfriends instead of me?”

“Excuse me?” Dean’s voice takes a dangerous turn.

“You heard me. Go bother one of them. I have better things to do,” Sam spits.

“Maybe if you got laid once in a while you wouldn’t wake up so goddamn _bitchy_ ,” Dean spits back.

“Maybe if you got laid a little _better_ you wouldn’t come home and disturb other people’s sleep by jacking off!” Sam hadn’t really meant to let slip that he was awake during the act, but now the words are out there and Sam can’t take them back. Color rises high on Dean’s cheeks. He leans in close, too close to Sam’s space for Dean to be able to breathe without ghosting it over Sam’s cheek.

“Well at least I’m not the one who touched themselves to their _brother_.”

Sam jerks back.

“Yeah,” Dean sneers. “I was awake, too.”

There’s no earthly thing Sam can say to that. No apologies, no excuses to explain away what he did and why. Embarrassed and enraged, Sam wrenches his coat off of the back of his chair, snatches the car keys from Dean’s hand and shoves past him to leave.

Dean watches him go, watches Sam’s body practically bubble with fury, his head hanging in shame as he walks out the door, and he wonders why he said that. Why did he say that?

He stands there for a moment feeling guilty, before walking out as well, ignoring the looks of disapproval from the other patrons of the library. Dean has the awful thought that Sam could’ve just driven off in the Impala and left him there—it would be a cold walk back to the motel—but there she is, and there’s Sam inside, sulking and twisted so his back is to the driver’s seat.

When Dean sits down in the car, he’s grateful to find that Sam turned it on and got the heat going. For some reason he’d been expecting Sam to sit miserably in the cold. He smiles lightly at the image of his stubborn, shivering little brother.

He pulls the car out of the library parking lot and she rumbles quietly down the busy road.

They’re quiet for most of the ride; harsh words and things unsaid fill the car with a heavy air.

“Listen,” Dean starts, and he can physically feel his brother tense further in his seat. “I didn’t mean what I said back there.”

Clearly this wasn’t what Sam was expecting because over his shoulder he flicks his gaze to Dean and away several times before he speaks.

“You’re not mad?” This is the weirdest, most uncomfortable situation he’s ever had with Dean. Just the act of breathing in the same car as him seems uncomfortable and makes him feel twitchy.

“No.” Dean flexes his grip on the leather of the steering wheel. “I don’t know why. I should be.” He seem Sam, from the corner of his eye, turn away again and stare out the window as Dean makes the turn for the street their motel is on. “I should feel angry, or disgusted. Maybe tell Dad,” and Sam jerks his head to stare at Dean, eyes wide with alarm. “I won’t, though,” Dean hurries to say.

“I don’t know why, but I won’t.” He pulls the Impala into the parking space designated for their room.

Sam squirms in his seat. He knows he can leave whenever he wants. He can escape the confines of this conversation and disappear into the motel room, dive into a school book, and forget that this ever happened. But he doesn’t. He stays in the car and stretches out his fingers onto his jeans before curling them back into his palms.

“You knew I was awake the whole time, didn’t you.”

“Since I walked in the room, yeah.” Dean keeps his eyes focused on the steering wheel, unseeing. “I could feel you watching me.”

Sam doesn’t think that should give him a little thrill, but it does.

“You set my book aside. You put a blanket on me.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees quietly. Awkwardly.

“And you did… _that_ …beside me when you knew I was awake.”

“I…” Dean stares down at his lap. “Yeah.” He’s not sure if it would be a good idea to say that knowing Sam was beside him and awake only added to his pleasure in the moment, so he keeps it to himself.

“Why?”

Finally, Dean glances over at Sam. There’s something unnameable here, a third presence in the car with them. They both feel it as they watch each other with wary eyes.

“I don’t know,” Dean says, and he really doesn’t.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Tuesday Afternoon._ **

 

 

When they finally exit the car and walk inside, their father is packing a bag.

“Where are you going?” Dean asks. Sam stands next to Dean quietly and waits for the answer.

“Another one’s been taken,” John says as he double checks the contents of his duffel. “Annabelle Thorne, 13 years old, sometime in the hour after school let out.” He sends a hard look Sam’s way and Sam feels his bones go cold under the gaze.

“You see or hear anything?”

“No, sir.”

“How could you have not?” John demands, and Sam feels his back go ramrod straight.

“I left immediately after school for the library to research, and we don’t share the same building. She’s two years below me.” John seems to accept the reasons, but Sam still feels that low-key disappointment that seeps from his father like day old cigarette smoke.

”I need to talk to the police again, visit the family of the first girl.” John zips up the bag in a swift motion. “There’s something they aren’t telling me….”

“When are you coming back?” Dean asks.

“I’m taking the Impala this time, but I’ll be back tonight.”

“When, tonight?”

“Late.” John says, and Sam sighs at the vague, non-answers as Dean fishes the keys out of his pocket reluctantly, and all at once Sam realizes that his father taking the car means that he’ll be stuck—alone—with Dean in the motel room. He’s immediately nervous, uncomfortable, and shifts in place.

“Have you figured out how to kill them?”

It takes a moment for Sam to realize the question was directed at him. “No, not yet.”

“I need that information, Sam!”

“It’s taking a lot of time to go through it all!” Sam defends. “And I have a paper for school I have to work on.”

“That’s not what’s important here.”

“It’s important to me.” Sam can’t help the honest reply, or the way it comes out a little forcefully.

“These girls could be dying, Sam. Do you want that to be on you?” John is yelling now, and the words make Sam flinch back. Even though it’s the first time Sam’s brought it up, his schoolwork getting in the way of casework is a time-old argument between them, and it only seems to get worse with each case. Now, Sam can’t remember a time when his father wasn’t so quick to shout about it. They hadn’t even made it five sentences in.

Quietly, Sam tries to diffuse the situation. “You want me to find a singular bit of information on an obscure monster, in a big library that has a shockingly large section on mythology. It’s taking some time.”

John frowns and looks at Dean. “Tomorrow you’ll help him.”

“Yes, sir.” The response is automatic and John nods his head, a little jerk of appreciation. Briefly, lays his hand on Sam’s shoulder. It’s almost like an apology for yelling. Almost.

“Take care of your brother,” he directs at Dean before heading out the door.

Still a little mad, Sam flings his backpack on the bed. He takes a few deep breaths and in a flash his anger is replaced by a feeling of tight awkwardness. He looks over at Dean, watches him while he stares at the door with a frown on his face until the roar of the Impala can no longer be heard. Sam looks away, and still he is painfully aware of Dean’s presence in the room with him, doubly so after what was said in the car. The short fight with his father has been forgotten.

 _He knew_ , Sam thinks. _He knew, and he did it anyway._ He doesn’t get it, tries to wrap his head around it, but it only brings the memory of sound and need, and Sam feels himself getting hard in his jeans.

Not wanting to draw attention to it, Sam sits on the bed and brings his knees up to his chin. He ignores the uncomfortable squashing of his dick in his pants and wills the erection to go away.

Dean turns from the door and walks into the kitchenette. He opens the fridge but closes it empty handed, opens a pantry and takes nothing out. He looks anywhere but at Sam.

After a few minutes of weird silence, Dean says, “I’m, uh… gonna shower.” His discomfort is audible.

Sam, who had dragged a used textbook out of his bag, mumbles “whatever” without looking up. After reading the same sentence nine times he _still_ has no idea what it says. He can feel his face heat, and is grateful when he hears Dean shut the bathroom door, the _snick_ of the lock.

After a while, Sam realizes that he’s too distracted to try and do homework. He sets the book aside, stands and stretches. His back pops with the movement and Sam groans in relief.

The shower is still going. Sam thinks Dean is spending an uncharacteristically long time in there, but shrugs it off, along with the thought that Dean’s using it to avoid him.

He heads to the kitchen and grabs a water, drinks half of it while searching through his duffel bag for something more comfortable; he isn’t going anywhere the rest of the night anyway. He changes into a pair of basketball shorts that used to be Dean’s, and are far too loose for him, and settles back on the bed with his legs outstretched. Already he feels more focused.

He’s only been looking at his book for a few more minutes before the water shuts off in the bathroom. When Dean exits, he is, once again, wrapped in only a towel. Sam glances up at him and then immediately back down at his work, viciously turning a page and thinking that it’s not fucking unreasonable to take your clean clothes into the bathroom with you when you shower.

Sam refuses to look up again, even as Dean walks toward him.

Dean’s steps are slow and uncertain. He doesn’t think he’s been this nervous since his first goddamn date. He doesn’t even know _why_ he’s nervous, he just recognizes the electricity that crackles through him and leaves him wired.

“Hey,” Dean says softly.

“Hmm,” Sam mumbles, intensely focused on his book.

“Look at me,” Dean says, and Sam feels the mattress move as it distributes the weight of Dean sitting down. He resolutely keeps his eyes on his textbook.

“Look at me, Sammy.”

Something zips up Sam’s spine and gives him a quick shiver at the way Dean says his name. He swallows heavily and can’t stop his gaze from slowly sliding up. _Stupid,_ he thinks, _I’m so stupid,_ because this time he is unable to look away.

Sam’s eyes notice every drop that lingers on Dean’s neck, his flushed shoulders from the heat of the water. There’s an odd expression on his face. Curious. Hungry.

“Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

Sam draws his knees up to his chest once more and doesn’t answer. He can feel the blush rise on his cheeks and enflame his ears.

“I would have stopped if you had.” Even as he says it, Dean isn’t sure it’s true. Neither is Sam.

“Why didn’t you say anything, Sammy?” Dean repeats.

He leans forward and he’s so close, _too_ close—close like they were at the library earlier—nose to nose, breath to breath, but Sam can’t breathe.

The nervousness that rises in Sam’s eyes tugs at Dean, and he stares into them, thinking that he’s never seen them so wide, so bright. He feels reckless and dangerous with his heart pounding in his rib cage.

Dean reaches to take the textbook gently from where it is crushed between Sam’s chest and his thighs, and Sam lets him.

 _He’s going to touch me_ , Sam thinks with a hint of panic, his already half-hard cock filling quickly at the thought. He inhales sharply through his nose. _He’s going to touch me, and I’m going to let him._

Dean doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know why, but doesn’t dare question it. His fingers itch and stretch out of their own accord. They spread over Sam’s knees and push them apart. Sam lets his legs slide and move without protest. He’s embarrassed by his own body, too long, too thin, chicken-legs, disproportionate arms. Turned on by his brother. Shame bursts through him. He watches Dean, trying to remember how to breathe as he sees Dean look at the erection tenting his shorts.

Embarrassment rises anew, but still Sam says nothing aloud.

“Did you want to listen to me?” Dean asks, staring at his brother with a new kind of wonder. Dean’s eyes are glassed over but completely focused. “Did you want to hear the sounds I made? Touch me?”

Sam makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, hands twitching on the covers, and Dean knows that it’s an aborted reach for himself. He can see just how hard Sam is through the thin black fabric. It would be so easy to reach out and touch for him.

Dean finds himself laying a hand on Sam’s cock and curling his fingers around the length, astonished at the pained gasp it yanks from Sam and the way his eyes flutter shut. Something in the back of his mind is whispering to him that this is a bad idea, but he ignores the words and shoves the thought away.

“Did you want me to touch you?” He pulls once, twice. Three times, a torturous, slow rhythm. “Want me to roll over and put my hands on you like this?”

Sam whines, a high sound that reminds Dean of a creature hurting. Dean feels a rush of excitement.

“Tell me.” Sam opens his mouth but no words escape, his brain is rattling around in his head, filled only with _Dean, Dean, Dean._

“Tell me you wanted that, wanted me to make you come all over my hand.” Suddenly, Dean is desperate to hear it, doesn’t think he’s ever wanted to hear anything more in his life. He tightens his grip at the head of Sam’s cock and hears his brother choke on a breath.

Finally, Sam’s brain reconnects with his tongue and he sobs out, “Yes, God, _please._ ”

Dean swears and grabs him by the waist with both hands, hauling him onto his lap. Sam’s breath hitches at the rough handling, the dark pupils of Dean’s eyes, and he puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders to steady himself. He looks down at his knees bracketing Dean’s waist, and with the sudden movement, Dean’s towel has come undone at his hips, laying loosely over the bulge between his legs. Sam swallows and says Dean’s name hesitantly.

“Shhh,” Dean soothes, his hand creeping up Sam’s leg under the hem of the shorts and tickling the soft hair on his thigh. He curls his fingers around the curve of Sam’s leaking dick through his boxers—those are too big for him, too—and begins to move.

“Oh,” Sam moans quietly, then a shocked “Ah!” as Dean turns his head to suckle at Sam’s wrist.

Experimentally, Sam grinds his hips down against Dean’s length. It’s awkward with Dean’s hand still moving over Sam’s cock and the contact isn’t complete, but the small sensation and the thought of it makes them both moan. Sam’s head tilts down and he locks eyes with Dean. He grinds down again, with more intent this time, and does better.

“Shit,” Dean says quietly and leans his head against Sam’s chest as he jerks his brother off. His hot exhalations through the fabric of Sam’s t-shirt make Sam wriggle on top of him.

“Dean, please,” Sam says, though he is strangely unsure of what he’s asking for, as Dean pulls away from his chest. With Sam’s movements, Dean’s towel has parted and revealed the weeping head of Dean’s cock and Sam groans at the sight.

He removes a hand from Dean’s shoulder to touch it, making Dean gasp out Sam’s name. Obviously, Sam is familiar with his own cock, but Dean’s is somehow hotter, softer, and harder than he was expecting, all at the same time. His mouth fills with saliva and suddenly he wants it in his mouth, heavy on his tongue and deep in his throat. His belly leaps at the idea and he swears. Sam’s mouth falls open as he watches his hand fan out over the slick tip and travel down in a tight grip.

“Christ,” Dean breathes and, with his free hand, drags Sam down to meet him by the back of his neck. Sam lets go of Dean’s dick and his hand flies back to Dean’s shoulder for support at the sudden shift in balance. He cries out and jerks against Dean as his brother fits his mouth onto Sam’s clothed collarbone and bites down. Something sparks and snaps inside Sam, and he forces his hips down as Dean’s hand runs the expanse of Sam’s back to clutch tightly at his ass.

They avoid each other’s mouths, as if kissing would make all of this real instead of something pulled from dreams and guilty half-awake thoughts, but they chase after each other’s skin, latching on wherever closest. A shoulder, the straining tendon of a neck, the soft, thin skin of a wrist.

Sam is burning up inside as Dean yanks his body against him in a harsh grind, hardly daring to think that this is actually happening. Hard to believe that he’s part of this moment, and his mind creates the image of himself as if he were watching a movie: Sam, clothed in his shirt and basketball shorts, Dean naked underneath him with the towel pooled around his waist and one strong arm reaching up the loose leg of Sam’s shorts to wrap fingers around his boxer-clad dick, the other firmly gripping Sam’s ass. Sam moans and bucks into Dean’s hand.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean pants, entranced by the sweat above Sam’s lip and on his brow, the tight look of concentration and pleasure on his face. He knows his brother’s face. He’s seen him grimace in pain with training, face rapt with fear on a hunt or mouth stretched in a big laugh on a rare, easy, carefree day. But these expressions—open mouth, eyes screwed shut, blushing cheeks and neck—are so exposed with need that it’s driving Dean insane. He doesn’t have time to examine his desire, sudden and brutal as a train wreck, and he doesn’t want to. Sam digs his fingernails into Dean’s shoulder and makes him hiss as the sharp pain. He moves his hand faster, more frantically at the sound of his name, broken off at the cusp of Sam’s pink lips.

Sam darts down to clamp his teeth on Dean’s shoulder—right over the teeth marks he’d seen that morning—and scores his nails across Dean’s back as he comes with a groan, muffled through the skin in his sharp teeth.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, cock aching with need and neck stinging painfully under Sam’s mouth as he feels his brother’s dick jerk with orgasm, feels the wet warmth flood his boxers and dampen the fabric, making Dean’s hand sticky.

“Dean,” Sam sighs out weakly, his hips still working awkwardly against his brother’s painful erection.

Dean withdraws his hand from Sam’s shorts and grabs his own dick, stripping it quick, chasing the orgasm in front of him. Sam watches, captivated by the speed of Dean’s hand and the tight, screwed up expression on Dean’s face as he mutters “come on, come on, _fuck, yes_.”

His brow relaxes and he bites his lip gently with a smile as he spurts all over his chest.

They stay there, waiting for their breath to even out. Sam is braced above Dean, wondering what he should do now. Is this a one-off? Is it a thing? Could it be a thing? Are they okay? He shifts slightly, unsure, and wrinkles his nose at the tacky feeling in his underwear. Dean smiles at his expression.

“Go on,” Dean pets at Sam’s arm before slapping it lightly. “Go get cleaned up.”

Sam pulls back from Dean and stands on shaky legs before making his way to the bathroom.

He spends a long time under the hot spray of the shower, cleaning himself off and running through what just happened. He pinches himself to make sure he’s actually awake, that they actually did that. Sam scrubs at his hair and ignores the soft sound of the door opening and closing again.

After the suds are gone, he pulls back the curtain a little to see what the noise was, and finds a clean pair of underwear draped on the lip of the sink. He smiles and turns off the water.

When he exits the bathroom clean and clothed he feels suddenly shy, and ridiculous for it. His hair is still damp though he ran a towel over it, and his skin feels fresh from all his scrubbing. He has no idea where he and Dean stand.

Dean is relaxed underneath the covers on his own side of the bed. He waves Sam over with a tiny movement, like he’s not very sure either.

Sam shuffles over to the bed and crawls in with his back facing Dean. He can see the dimming light of the day through the plastic slots of the blinds. Suddenly, Dean’s arm is wrapping around him and tugging him against Dean’s body. Sam huffs out a small sound, but he’s pleased by their closeness, and knows they’re okay.

“We’ll sleep for a little while then I’ll make us some dinner.” Dean’s breath tickles against Sam’s ear.

Sam nods and asks quietly, “What about Dad?” _What if he finds us like this?_

“He won’t be back until late. We’re okay.”

Sam lets his eyes close, unaware of how tired he was until this moment. “Don’t forget about the library tomorrow,” he murmurs into his pillow.

He feels Dean’s thumb brush along his flat stomach and his skin jumps at the touch.

“Sleep,” Dean whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter for tomorrow! I hope you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	4. Chapter 4

**_October 28, 1998. Wednesday Afternoon._ **

 

 

“Alright.” After Dean had picked Sam up from school they’d headed directly for the library. Sam had collected a few books he thought might be useful before snagging an out-of-the-way table and Dean sat beside him, hands folded over an open book. “Walk me through this,” he says.

Sam shoves his hair out of his face—he’ll probably need a haircut soon—and starts explaining the information he’s found so far on Vetala. He goes over their basic physiology, their hunting and feeding habits, and skates over their origins.

Dean taps his lip, thinking over the information. “You said they hunt in pairs.” Sam nods the affirmative. “Does it say whether it’s a pack kind of thing, pseudo-familial, like with werewolves? Or are the pairs just random?”

Sam frowns over the question. He scans the pages in front of him for a moment. It’s the same book he’d relayed information from two days ago to their father. “As far as I can see it doesn’t say anything about that specification. We could be looking at sisters, a mother and daughter, or two random women for all we know.”

“Great,” Dean sighs. “That’ll make them easy to find.” He chews on the edge of his fingernail. “You sure they’re always women?”

Sam taps his fingers on the table. “As far as I’ve read, yeah. They’re pretty brutal, too.”

“Do they leave anything behind?”

“Like what?”

“Are they secreters. Blood, saliva, anything?”

Sam checks the book again, shoves it away and grabs for another when he doesn’t find the answer. He bites at his lip. “I’m not finding anything on it here.”

“Police reports mention anything about any substances left at the scene of abductions?”

“Not that I can recall.” It’s a good suggestion, one Sam hadn’t thought of, and he vows silently to keep it in mind and recheck the reports…but it all still feels off to him. Sam doesn’t have anything to back his claim of it being something else so he doesn’t say anything. He wonders if Dean would take his word for it.

Dean flips the pages with one hand, the other resting lightly on Sam’s knee. It makes Sam hold his breath—which he thinks is dumb because after what happened last night this should be nothing—but it affects him all the same. They sit together and skim the books, hoping to find the way to kill Vetalas.

It hadn’t been quiet between them for more than ten minutes when Dean slams his book shut. He removes his hand from Sam’s knee, which he had been stroking absentmindedly, and takes the sleeve of Sam’s jacket to tug him from his seat.

“Did you find something?” Sam asks as he’s led to the back of the building, towards the sections that are more obscure and dimly lit.

“Nah.” When Dean deems that they have gone far enough back into the dredges of the library, where no one will disturb them, he spins Sam and shoves him against one of the tall, anchored bookshelves.

“Well, then what are you doing?” Sam asks, suspicious of the look in Dean’s eyes.

“There’s something I’ve been thinking about since last night.” The grin Dean shoots him from the side of his face sends hot pulses through the pit of Sam’s stomach. He doesn’t know what to say.

The corner of a hardback is shoved into Sam’s spine but he doesn’t care because Dean’s teeth are now skillfully working on his neck. He gasps at the sensation, the tiny thrill of _what if we get caught?_ His hands fly up to Dean’s soft hair and tug.

Dean’s fingers are pressing into Sam’s sides and his waist, pulling him close to Dean’s body before pushing his back against the shelving and working to undo his pants.

“Dean,” Sam whispers breathlessly, wondering if Dean is actually going to do what he thinks. He goes completely blank when Dean sinks to his knees. Sam had already been slowly getting hard from Dean stroking his knee at the table, but now he thickens right up with his brother looking at him through long lashes, dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Shh, Sammy.” Dean grins up at his brother, shoving down the waist of Sam’s underwear and taking out his cock. “Someone might hear you.”

Sam’s eyes roll into the back of his head when Dean breathes hotly over his dick before taking it into his mouth. He can’t help the shudder, the little “ _oh_ ” that escapes. His hands migrate to Dean’s shoulders, both to hold himself steady and upright, and to feel Dean’s movements as he bobs his head up and down, sucking and licking at Sam’s cock.

It’s difficult to keep from thrusting his hips into the wet heat of Dean’s mouth, so Sam digs his fingers into Dean’s shoulders and holds on tight. His toes curl inside his sneakers when he looks down at Dean and meets his eyes.

His brother is gorgeous on his own, but with Dean’s mouth loaded with a cock and his eyes hot with sex and desire, he’s a fucking vision. Sam can’t keep looking at him or he _knows_ he’ll come, and he can’t stand for this to be over just yet. He tosses his head back when Dean takes him down particularly far, and Sam feels the head of his cock bump against the soft flesh of Dean’s throat. His skulls knocks into some books and he vaguely thinks he might have heard one fall from the other side. It doesn’t matter.

Sam sighs, bites his lip when Dean circles his tongue around the tip of his cock and feels his jeans be tugged further down, exposing his ass to the cold, air conditioned building. He hisses in shock and pleasure as Dean takes his hands and wraps them around Sam’s ass. Dean kneads his fingers into the soft, round flesh and moans around Sam’s dick.

“Dean,” Sam marvels, not knowing what else to say. His brother sucks cock like his mouth was made to have something stuffed inside, and tentatively, Sam moves his hips forward as Dean moves his mouth down.

Dean chokes a little and pulls back. Sam is close to panicking, about to apologize, wondering if he’s ruined the whole thing when Dean clears his throat lightly and looks up.

“Again,” he says, and Sam thinks he might come right then and there.

He takes a hand and presses it against the back of Dean’s head, whispers, “Is this okay?”

Dean nods and takes Sam into his mouth again.

Nervously, filled with jitters and butterflies that flip his stomach, Sam thrusts into Dean’s mouth, pushing Dean’s head down onto his cock at the same time. It hits the back of Dean’s throat and he shudders, curling over Dean a little at the feeling.

He repeats the motions, pressing his fingers onto the back of Dean’s neck when he feels Dean stiffen his tongue and Sam can’t help the gasps that he makes. Tingles dance their way through his body and he’s close, so close, he knows it.

Sam freezes when the phone in his jacket pocket starts to ring, and the tingles of pleasure are replaced with a feeling of dread. It can only be their father. Dean, however, seems unfazed, and only pulls off gently to lick at the underside of Sam’s cock.

It rings again, and Sam can only think of how fucking appropriate it is that his first blowjob is interrupted by his dad.

“Answer it,” Dean says with his lips against the head of Sam’s cock, “before someone comes over here.” The tiny vibrations from Dean's mouth make him a little dizzy.

“He’ll know,” Sam bites out.

“He’ll be more suspicious if you don’t pick up.” The words are a whisper, a hot breath over his length, and Sam fumbles for the phone.

“Hello?”

_“Sam, what are you doing?”_

“Nothing. I’m at the library with Dean.” Sam tilts his head back and closes his eyes at the gentle sucking of Dean’s mouth. His free hand grips the edge of the bookshelf hard, nails catching against the wood grain. Sam’s panting softly, mouth turned away from the receiver so it can't catch the noises held in the back of his throat.

_“What’s wrong with you?”_

“We’re… I’m… trying to get a book off the shelf.” There’s no other excuse in his mind, and with Dean’s hands curled around his ass and thighs, Sam counts himself lucky to have been able to draw that one out of the hat, however incredibly lame.

Dean picks up speed with his mouth, equal parts suction and dirty licks that make Sam’s knees weak. Dean moves to cradle Sam’s balls in his calloused hands, and reaches with his middle finger to put the smallest amount of pressure at the tight, fluttering ring of Sam’s hole. It’s a wonder he doesn’t drop the phone.

Sam has completely lost the thread of what his father is saying to him but John hasn’t begun to yell yet, which is a safe sign. Except now he’s asking questions and Sam doesn’t have answers, doesn’t have breath, can’t speak can’t think, can only bury a hand in Dean’s hair as the tip of Dean’s finger circles and presses, circles and presses, and Sam is coming in a painful rush down his brother’s throat.

It takes a second before the ringing in Sam’s ears stop, another to recognize the irritated tone of his father through the phone.

 _“Sam? Sam, answer me, now!”_ Sam still can’t speak, hazy vision swimming with Dean’s green eyes as he feels himself be tucked back in his jeans, zipped and buttoned up.

Their mouths are inches apart and Sam can’t stop flicking his eyes down to the strong bow of Dean’s lips.

Dean takes the phone from Sam’s lax hand. “Dad? It’s Dean.”

He slides a knee between Sam’s parted legs and presses up against Sam’s groin. Sam gasps at the small sensation, still sensitive from his orgasm.

“Yes sir, I understand.” Dean’s eyes never break contact with Sam’s when he says, “Sam will do as he’s told.”

The words make Sam tremble.

 

 

The Impala rumbles underneath them as Dean drives them back to the motel. Dean had refused Sam the opportunity to reciprocate and they stuck around a little while longer, but neither had found the information they needed. They knew they couldn’t keep driving back and forth constantly, so each of them had snuck a book out of the library under their jacket or in their bag without being caught by the watchful librarian, who had walked in the building as they were walking out. Sam had studiously avoided her gaze, hoping she wouldn’t recognize the book-shaped creases in Dean’s jacket, but she hadn’t said anything, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

While they drive, Sam thinks about how he’s barely gotten any work done on his paper, all his time taken over by the demands of this case. With the lore books in his bag sitting on his lap, Sam knows he’s not going to get much work done on his homework today.

This would be his—third? He counts quickly in his head— _fourth_  school this semester and it’s already going badly. Some part of him doesn’t even know why he’s bothering with the homework. The paper is due Monday morning and Sam knows they only have until Saturday to find and kill what’s taking these kids. They’ll be gone before the weekend is done. He shifts in his seat. _It’s important,_ his brain insists. Freshman year is supposed to be a gateway to adulthood, to a way out of this hunter’s life. Even if he can’t turn it in because he isn’t here anymore, it’s important that he does the work anyway. He repeats this in his head over and over, until he’s convinced himself that he believes it.

They pull into the motel lot and before Sam can get out Dean grabs his arm. He turns to look at his brother, eyes darting down to Dean’s hand and up to his eyes.

“I know school work is important to you, but Dad will be home in an hour or so. He wants to talk with us about the case.” Sam holds his breath, absurdly wondering if Dean can read his mind, but releases it immediately.

“Is something wrong?”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think so, he just wants to fill us in and know what we’ve found.”

“But we haven’t found anything new,” Sam frowns.

“I know. He won’t be able to fault us for it if we’re actively looking, which is why I’m giving you an hour to work on your paper and then get it hidden. When Dad gets back we’ll be researching.” Dean smiles a little at Sam, and Sam’s heart flutters.

“Okay,” Sam nods as he opens the passenger door.

He wonders if the single word he said lets on to how he actually feels, if the sound of his voice betrayed him. He feels a rush of gratitude for Dean covering him—Dean, who obeys their father’s orders in a heartbeat; Dean, who makes Sam feel so heavy with love that he might sink through the concrete.

His fingers are shaking as he slides the key into the door. _Love?_ It was so unexpected—sudden as a bullet, soft and inevitable as leaves falling from the trees around him. He swallows hard as he walks inside. He feels different as he moves, weightless and heavy, every part of him a juxtaposition.

“Dude, you okay?”

Sam startles and turns. Dean is staring at him and Sam’s mouth immediately goes dry. He swallows again.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He tries hard to shake off his revelation. “Just a school thing.”

Dean nods. While Sam frowns, yanking his school work out of his backpack, he toes off his shoes and tries to work out exactly how he changed. He’s always loved his brother, wanted him safe and happy. Even when he knew he desired Dean in this way, it had never extended past a deep need to be close, to touch, to feel Dean over and under him, inside him, holding him. This is different though, this is intimate and all-consuming, felt in every particle of his body. He flexes his static-fingers and sprawls out on the length of the bed, feet by his pillow. Had he been fooling himself? Had it always been there, resting under the surface of his skin?

Dean turns the heater on to combat the chill that creeps under the poorly made door before sitting beside Sam and untying his boots. He tosses them to the side and they thump heavily against the wall. Sam notices the scent of cologne on Dean’s skin as he stretches out beside him and opens one of the lore books they had sneaked out of the library. He breathes it in, and tries not to enjoy the warmth of Dean beside him too much.

Sam scribbles in his notebook quietly; Dean flips pages and scowls. The hour passes companionably and quickly between them. By the time Sam’s hand starts to cramp and the majority of his paper is written, Dean checks his watch and stretches.

“Can you stop?”

Sam drops his pencil and uncurls his hand, shakes it out. “Yeah.”

He packs his things away and adjusts his body on the bed when Dean hands him the other book.

Everything that Sam reads are things that he has seen before; hunting patterns, where they originated from, their physiology. Nothing new or interesting pops out or leads him to believe that how to kill this monster can even be found out.

 _But it must be somewhere,_ Sam scowls at his book, and Dean must have noticed it because he nudges Sam gently with his shoulder. Sam scoots a little closer and Dean adjusts himself so it’s comfortable.

They are lined up like that, sides connected like conjoined twins, when their father walks in the door twenty minutes later. Sam automatically widens the gap between himself and Dean, elbow-walking his body to a more reasonable distance.

“How’s the research coming?” John says by way of greeting.

“Slow,” Dean grimaces. “We keep finding the same information over and over but nothing new. Nothing on how to kill them.”

“Are you sure Uncle Bobby didn’t have anything on Vetalas that could be useful?” Sam asks.

“No more than what you’ve already found. Once we learn how to kill them, he’ll be the first one I call.” John passes a rough hand over his face. He tosses his briefcase on the bed before he removes his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his white button down. With the jacket on, John looks more like the Detective he’d been posing as, but without it he just looks tired. He sits on the edge of his bed and faces Sam and Dean, so they sit up and do the same.

“Another girl was taken today,” John starts, and he catches the grim look on Dean’s face. “We don’t know where the Vetala is yet, so I was expecting this.”

“Where was she taken?” Dean asks.

John snaps open the briefcase and drags out three files, handing two to Sam and Dean and opening one for himself.

“Jessica McMannus,” he reads. “Ten years old, only child of Maria and David. She was supposed to go home with her older brother once he’d finished football practice at the high school. She made it there okay, but was gone by the time it was over.”

“No one saw anything?” Dean frowns.

“Nothing unusual.” John closes the manila folder and hands it to Sam. They look at each other, but this time there are no accusatory eyes or defensive hearts. “I guess you didn’t see anything either?”

Before Sam can answer, Dean does. “I picked him up from school as soon as it got out and we went straight to the library.”

“We were gone before practice would have started, and definitely before she would have been out of class,” Sam adds, relieved at the way John just nods. Dean passes Sam his folder and Sam looks at them side by side, listening with one ear while John continues to fill them in.

“According to the parents, Jessica was having a rough time in school. They moved here at the beginning of the semester and she wasn’t happy about it, would throw fits in class. She refused to take her own bus home, didn’t listen to any of her teachers, and was repeatedly sent to the principal.”

“Sounds like a brat,” Dean comments.

“Yeah, well, she’s a missing brat.” John gives his son a half smile.

“The parents both work so they were unable to pick her up from school, but Jessica loves her older brother. They made a deal with her that she would walk over to the high school, wait for his practice to end, and he would drive them both home.” He shifts on the bed as he kicks off his shoes. “Now, I already spoke with the teacher that walks her over every day, but she said nothing out of the ordinary happened. She got Jessica there, made sure the coach knew, then headed back to the intermediate school.”

But someone must have seen something,” Dean says. “She didn’t just disappear into thin air.”

“Maybe the Vetalas are posing as teachers?” Sam suggests. John and Dean look at him and Sam shrugs. “It would be a good time to take her. Just say it’s too cold for her to wait outside, walk her in, and go from there.”

John shakes his head. “I did full background checks on all the teachers at the school. All of them have lived here for more than eight years, and kids weren’t taken before three years ago.”

Sam turns his focus back to the folders of the first two girls as Dean asks more questions. Little scraps of notes from their mothers were tucked between dates of birth and times of abduction. It makes Sam’s heart clench.

Brooke Walker: Twelve years old, taken before school began on Monday morning. Only child of a well-off, white family. She likes school, reading, and loves animals. Despite her love of learning—Sam flips to her school records—he notices the failing marks in History and Math, the referrals to the principal for lying to her instructors and badly forged signatures on report cards.

Annabelle Thorne: Thirteen years old, taken Tuesday afternoon in the short time after her last class and before her bus loaded. One younger brother, who would ride the bus home with her. Mom and Dad were sure she didn’t grab a ride with a friend, and she wouldn’t have walked home. Sam checks her school records as well. His eyebrow shoots up as he sees the multiple write-ups for disturbances and fights, serving detention and ISS. She was from a white, well-to-do family as well.

Quickly, Sam flips through Jessica’s file, wondering if her family is white and wealthy, and if this could be a racial or money issue, but Jessica’s mother is Hispanic and they live in an apartment, not a nice house. It’s getting dark out, so Sam flips the lamp on as he thinks. Three girls aren’t quite enough to base a pattern off of…

“Dad?” Sam draws his father’s attention away from Dean. “Do you have records somewhere of the other fifteen girls?”

John gets up to dig his journal out of his bag. He flips to the appropriate pages and hands it over to Sam.

So far, the only thing Sam sees is that all the victims are female, in a young age group ranging from nine to sixteen years old, and all go to the same school district. This last fact is unsurprising; Sam knows that Stillwater is a small town. It only has one school, but since his father already said he checked all the teachers and they came up clean, Sam is back at square one.

John yawns hugely. “See anything?”

Sadly, Sam shakes his head. “I thought there may have been something, but you already ruled out the teachers, and I can’t find any patters of income, race, religion, or hobbies. There doesn’t seem to be anything obvious that links these girls together, but it can’t be random.” Sam closes his father’s journal and hands it back to him. “Nothing is ever truly random.”

“We’ll find it,” Dean says. “If anyone can figure this out it’s you.” His eyes are warm on Sam, and Sam has to look away to keep from saying something he shouldn’t in front of their father. Something he probably shouldn't say at all.

John yawns again. “You’ll do some more research tomorrow while I’m at the police station. They don’t like me,” he grins, and Dean returns it.

“They don’t know what they’re doing,” Dean says as John stretches out on top of the covers. “You do.” Sam gets up and replaces the folders in his father’s briefcase and moving it to the kitchen island. He goes back to the bed and turns off the lamp once more, enveloping the room in darkness.

“I’m glad I got you boys,” John mumbles into the crook of his arm. “Don’t know what I would have done with two girls.” His voice peters out and turns into a soft snore.

Dean and Sam watch him in the soft blackness of their room for a moment, and think of how he sleeps in his clothes, how he’s constantly exhausted and never gets enough rest, surviving on adrenaline and coffee. Sam wonders if he will end up just like his father and his stomach sinks, but Dean distracts him with a nudge of his arm. “C’mon, bedtime.” They crawl under the covers, Sam on his side, Dean on the other. “We have a long day of researching tomorrow so we might as well sleep early.”

It feels odd to be so far away from Dean in bed even though they had only slept against each other last night, for the first time in years. Dean must feel so too, because he grabs Sam and drags him close, tucking the top of Sam’s head under his chin.

Sam squirms. “But—”

“He’s asleep,” Dean hushes him. “He’s not looking at us.”

Sam pulls back a moment to see if Dean’s face is as sure as his words. Even in the darkness, he can tell that Dean is certain. Sam nods a little and burrows back into his brother, falling asleep nearly as fast as their father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not fond of this chapter; John is very hard for me to write. Leave a comment and let me know how I'm doing or if you like it! I always appreciate feedback :) 
> 
> Look out for two chapters tomorrow!


	5. Chapter 5

**_October 29, 1998. Thursday afternoon._ **

 

 

Dean is waiting in front of the school when Sam gets out of his last class. He wraps his jacket—one of Dean’s older ones that didn’t fit him anymore—tighter around him and slides into the warmth of the passenger seat. Dean smiles at Sam and, for the most part, they don’t speak on the way back to the motel.

Things seem strained in the car. Quiet. Tense, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Instead, it sends prickles all over Sam’s body, like he was cramped for too long and finally relaxed only to bring on pins and needles. Sam has the urge to take Dean’s hand, stroke his thumb over the calloused, pink knuckles, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hands folded over the backpack he’d swung onto his lap while his fingers turn into skittering bugs. They stroke and tug at the straps, needing something to do.

“You okay?” Dean glances at Sam from the corner of his eye, back to the road, glances again. Again. God, Sam feels so _watched_ and it’s making him itchy.

“Yeah, I’m good.” Dean frowns a little, but Sam doesn’t say anything else. What could he have said? _No, Dean, I’m not good. I want to touch you, I want you to touch me, I think I need you to fuck these jitters right out of me because my hands are screaming to be all over you._ But that was weird. He feels weird about all of this, in the car, right now. Sam can’t keep still.

They pull into the motel lot, shift into park, and Sam is out of the car before it stops settling into place. He fumbles with the key in the door, frantic to get inside away from the rest of the world.

Dean is right behind him with a frown on his face. “You sure you’re okay? You’re fucking jumpy.”

Sam flings his backpack onto their bed. “Yeah, I’m just, uh…” He needs something to do with his hands. Why is there nothing he can do with his _hands?_  “I’m just hungry.”

“Well, here.” Dean digs in his wallet and pulls out a tenner. “Go to that diner down the street and get a burger.”

Sam stares at the money, knowing it could go to other things. Gas, food for more than just himself. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs. “Just don’t get a drink; we’ve got stuff here.”

“Like what?”

“Beer.”

A startled smile pops out of Sam’s face. “I get to drink a beer?”

Dean snorts at him. “No, _I_ get to drink beer. You get to drink from the toilet bowl like a dog.” He flicks a lock of Sam’s hair out of his face with his fingers. “You look like a fucking golden retriever.”

Sam tugs at his bangs self-consciously. “You can cut it if you want.”

Dean steps closer, stomach rolling pleasantly at the thought of giving his brother a haircut. For something done so often and that is so necessary, it seems awfully intimate. The act of washing and cutting someone else’s hair, scrubbing his fingers through Sam’s scalp, massaging his skin, the trust involved… It fills Dean with warmth and a need to touch.

He runs a hand through Sam’s hair, says, “Nah,” and grips the strands, tugging purposefully until Sam’s throat is bared and he gasps. “I like having something to hold onto,” Dean whispers, and swears that Sam’s eyes go molten.

Dean lets go of his brother’s hair, Sam snatches the ten from Dean’s other hand, and flees out the door without another sound.

Sam leans his back against the outside of the door, grateful for the chilly air. He hadn’t been aware how stiflingly _hot_ it had gotten in there, and so fast, in the blink of an eye. He’s appalled at how hard he his.

Sam sticks the money in his pocket and starts walking to the diner.

“Is that all it takes?” He wonders out loud. “Just a little bit of hair pulling?” A shiver goes through his body from his shoulders to his toes. Question answered.

He shoves his cold hands into his pockets, fingering the money, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. It’s like he’s in a daze, rubbing and walking, rubbing and walking, wind racing past his cheeks and turning him pink.

He opens the door to _Curly’s Old Fashioned Hambrgrs_ and lets the warmth rush over him, but he can’t quite pull his mind away from Dean. Mechanically, Sam orders a cheeseburger with their signature curly fries, receives his change, and stuffs it in his pocket without checking to see if it’s correct. He barely hears the woman who took his order tell him it will be about 10 minutes, but Sam nods absently and goes to stand against the wall.

He literally cannot stop thinking about Dean’s hand in his hair, yanking it back. Sam runs a hand through it himself, tugs lightly, curiously. It’s not the same. He imagines a more forceful pull, his own hiss of pain, and pleasure shoots through his body. Sam crosses his ankles. He remembers Dean’s easy grin, teasing and so painfully gorgeous, like flirting with Sam and driving him crazy was second nature as breathing. Sam doesn’t hear them call out his order until the third time it’s said.

He picks up his bag and thanks them, also grateful that his jeans are one size too big and makes his erection less obvious, but he still has to restrain himself from awkwardly holding the bag in front of his crotch as he makes his way out the door.

Sam snacks on his fries as he walks back to the motel. They are, admittedly, delicious, and he feels a little guilty for not leaving any for Dean to try. Not guilty enough to not polish off the last of them with a satisfied smile before making it back to their door, though.

When he walks inside their father is still absent, but Dean is on the phone. He’s sitting on the bed and Sam can tell by the way he is using epithets like “baby” and “sweetheart” that it’s a girl on the other end.

Sam’s not mad. In fact, he grins, because all he has to do is think about Dean’s hands in his hair, Dean’s perfectly round mouth on his cock, and he’s chubbing up in his jeans all over again. This time, he doesn’t try to force it away, just enjoys the sensation of filling up. He sets his uneaten burger on the counter and walks over to Dean slowly.

When he’s standing in front of him at an uncomfortable closeness, Dean looks up with a wary gaze. Sam puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder to steady himself and climbs on top, knees bracketing Dean’s hips like they had been only two nights before. Dean puts a hand on Sam’s ass to keep him steady as he starts running his hands over Dean’s body. His chest, his shoulders, arms, back, neck—Sam leaves nothing untouched. He starts to grind down onto Dean’s dick and when he looks at Dean’s eyes, it seems like they are on fire.

Sam's breath sticks in his throat. He feels daring and sexy, briefly wonders if this is how all those girls feel when they get a night with Dean. Jealousy rears up and Sam leans back to unbutton his jeans. He pushes thoughts of other women away, even as Dean is keeping the conversation going with mindless agreements and thoughtful noises. This time, right now, is Sam’s.

He draws his cock out, stroking softly, and Dean cannot look away. His eyes are glued to Sam’s body, his eyes, his hands. Sam leans down to his unoccupied ear and whispers, “I can’t stop thinking about your mouth, how it looked stretched around me.” Dean’s hand tightens on Sam’s ass. “How you let me fuck it.”

He nips lightly at Dean’s ear and feels stupidly triumphant when Dean has to tip the receiver away from his mouth to exhale a curse heavily. He grinds down on Dean’s cock again, feels how much stiffer it is now. _God,_ this makes him feel so powerful. He’s drunk on the feeling, never been so free with his words, with his noises, whining and moaning and _talking_ at Dean.

He keeps saying Dean’s name with varying intensities, voice and body imitating exactly what it would be like if he were truly riding Dean’s cock now. His fingers are scrabbling at Dean’s shoulders, like he doesn’t know what to do with his body, and he keeps stripping his prick hot and fast, his own slick making the way easy and wet for him. _Christ,_ Dean can hear just how wet Sam is, and now it’s _he_ that has lost the thread of conversation in his ear. He has no idea what—Allison? The fuck is her name?—is saying, and he’s holding onto Sam for dear life, wanting badly to just hang up and get his mouth on Sam’s neck, his chest, suck Sam's twitching fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t just throw the phone away. Fuck the girl on the other end, Sam is whining so delicately into his ear, lips catching on the shell of it and making him shiver. It’s a far more pleasing sound than her grainy voice.

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so big inside me, Dean,” Sam says, as if Dean is actually fucking him and it makes Dean’s eyes roll into the back of his head. “Can’t stop thinking about it, how good you would feel, how _thick_ and hard, how you would fuck me, take me, _own me._ ”

Sam has no idea where these words are coming from. He’d always thought they sounded silly in porn and coming out of a girl’s mouth. Dirty talk was a fucking joke until this moment, when it seems to be driving Dean crazy and fuels his own desire, his own urge to come. He wishes the words were a self-fulfilling prophecy, unaware of how much he wanted everything he had said to become a reality until this very moment.

With the images in his mind of Dean over Sam, chest against back, elbows on either side of him and forehead against Sam’s neck, thrusting powerfully, panting with exhaustion, grunting with effort and the sound of his name falling from Dean’s mouth, Sam comes all over Dean’s chest.

Dean doesn’t even seem to care that his shirt is disgusting; he feels like he’s dying he’s so hard and wonders how he hasn’t broken the phone in his grip. Sam is a wonder above him, shuddering as he comes down, eyes shiny, like he nearly cried with how good it felt. He’s still touching his cock, rubbing his thumb over the sensitive head and Dean wants to do that for him, but if he lets go of Sam’s ass he would fall, and Allison is still talking to him on the phone. How he has managed to stay afloat in their conversation, he has no idea.

Finally, Sam seems to be calming down. He leans forward again, slides his mouth from sucking lightly on Dean’s ear to his stubbled jaw, and he nips at it lightly. He backs himself up and sinks to the carpet between Dean’s knees, and Dean’s entire body stiffens. Sam palms lightly over Dean’s cock through his jeans, refusing to unbutton them and take him out. Dean has a hand gripped in the comforter of the bed, but he bets if he tried to do it himself that Sam would smack his hand away.

Sam continues to touch him, the pressure increasing and maddening, and he’s so fucking close. His eyes close for a moment until Sam catches his attention.

“Dean,” he says, so soft and raspy that Dean can’t help but open his eyes to look at his brother. Sam’s eyes are fuzzy with his orgasm, but they are boring into Dean’s skull. He leans forward and fits his mouth over the bulge in Dean’s pants and Dean jerks. Warm breath, a hint of teeth, more pressure from Sam’s hand, and Dean is coming in his jeans like a fucking teenager.

He doesn’t make a sound, but after, when his dick stops pulsing, he takes huge gulps of air and has to run a hand over his face.

Sam has slithered away, stood up and tucked himself back in, and walked over to the bathroom door. He has a hand on the door frame and just stares at Dean.

_“Dean? Dean, are you still there?”_

Dean can’t respond to Allison just yet, sure that if he does his voice will give him away.

_“Dean!”_

“Yeah, uh, I’m here. That sounds good.” Dean’s not sure why he said that last part—it just seemed like the right thing to say. Apparently, it was, because Allison quickly loses the annoyance in her voice.

 _“Great! I’ll see you in an hour.”_ She hangs up, and Dean stares at the phone in his hand, wondering what the hell he just agreed to.

“Seems like you’ve got somewhere to be tonight,” Sam says teasingly from the doorway.

Dean just slides his gaze over and looks at Sam.

“You’ll probably need a shower. Too bad I’m taking one first,” he grins devilishly and slips inside, slamming the door and locking it lightning quick.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” Dean grins dopily before falling back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. He turns his head to the side, looking at the door of the bathroom like he’s trying to see through it to the boy behind, stepping under the water. He says it again, quietly, with feeling that comes out of the walls. “Son of a bitch…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a shorty, but the next one? Not as much. I apologize in advance.
> 
> Also: Curly's Old Fashioned Hambrgrs is a real place in Stillwater! All the of elements that made this story begin to unfold in my head are accurate items, facts, and dates. It was dumb luck (or possibly fate) that they all fit into the town I chose.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Thursday Evening._ **

 

 

Sam lets the hot water rush over him as he takes his sweet time, laughing when Dean bangs his fist on the door once, about twenty minutes in.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes more he loses himself under the spray, grinning foolishly at the brownish tiles, remembering the blissed-out look on Dean’s face, his staggered breath, and his utter disregard for the phone conversation, the girl on the other line. Sam bites his lip to keep from giggling like an idiot.

Eventually, the water begins to cool to uncomfortable levels and Sam shuts it off, steps out of the tub to towel himself dry. He dresses in the clean clothes he’d snagged before going into the bathroom and begins to rub at his hair with the towel when he hears voices outside the door. He recognizes Dean’s and their father’s, and he exits the bathroom barefoot, still drying his hair.

Dean has changed his shirt but the jeans are the same, and Sam bets the underwear hasn’t changed either. It gives him a sharp little thrill as he walks over to where they are standing.

“What’s going on?” Sam asks. His father’s face looks tight and concerned.

“I got a buddy few counties over, tipped me off to a couple little girls being taken on consecutive days.” John frowns as he leans his back against the kitchen counter. “No known connection between the families, but the method fits.”

“When were they taken?” Dean asks. His arms are crossed and it’s obvious that he’s tense. Whether that’s from the news from their father or the uncomfortable sensation of dried come in his jeans, Sam isn’t sure.

“Monday night, Tuesday afternoon, and yesterday evening. Another was reported missing today, and I haven't heard anything from the local PD about another girl in this town.” John shoves away from the counter and scrubs a hand over his face. He looks tired, always so tired...

“I’m heading that way soon to check it out. I think it’s possible the Vetalas have moved towns.”

“But they haven’t done that for the past three years,” Sam interjects. “Why do it this year?”

John scratches at his day-old beard. “Like I said, it’s just a possibility.”

Dean nods and says, “Sam and I will start packing up.”

Sam’s heart sinks as he watches them. He doesn’t have anything to say—all his protests are useless repeats that are never heard, and Dean seems to have completely shoved the thought of his plans tonight away at the news of moving.

“No,” John says, surprising Sam. “If I’m wrong and it hasn’t skipped out, I need you two to be here to kill it. The cab is waiting to take me to a rental.” John starts getting his things together, though he doesn’t grab much. He just stuffs a couple shirts and a suit into one duffel and fills another with his weapons.

“You’re leaving the car?”

“I don’t want a scratch on it when I come back.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, still a little stunned.

John looks back at Sam. “I need to know how to kill it tonight. We’re out of time.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam parrots.

“Look out for each other,” John says, before he heads out the door. Sam and Dean stare at the place he’d been standing until the taxi pulls away, and after John has been gone several minutes.

Finally, Sam drags his gaze away from the door and looks over his brother’s frame. He still looks surprised, concerned. He still looks gorgeous, and Sam wants to shove him to the bed and ride him all over again.

But Dean has somewhere to be.

“If you don’t leave now you’re going to be late,” Sam points out. He doesn’t even care that Dean is going on a date, the image of himself on top of Dean is so fresh in his mind that he couldn’t give a single fuck as to who Dean was going out with, or what they were planning on doing. “No time to change your pants or shower. What a shame.” Sam’s grin is downright evil.

Dean snaps out of his stupor, swears, and yanks on his leather jacket. “At least I changed my shirt.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees easily, “wouldn’t want her to see the stains we left on the other one.”

Dean eyes his brother hotly, swinging the keys in his hand. It seems like a dangerous movement, and Sam swallows hard. Dean stalks toward his brother and crowds Sam, bracketing him against the counter, leaning in close. Their noses are touching, bumping minutely with their breaths, though Sam’s has caught in his throat once more—it always seems to do that around Dean—and he has a moment to think that Dean might kiss him.

“Rule number one, Sammy: never leave a lady waiting.” He shoves away with a nasty grin of his own, snatches Sam's forgotten burger as if in some semblance of revenge, and immediately heads out the door, leaving his brother sweating and wanting.

 

 

Sam is lying on the bed with his face at the end, bare feet propped on his pillow, when the harsh sound of the key in the lock makes him stop reading his book. Dean is home early, but Sam isn’t thinking too much about that. A few minutes ago he had discovered how to kill Vetalas and he feels relieved with the accomplishment. The method had been squeezed tactlessly between lines of feeding habits and Sam was lucky his eyes hadn’t skipped over the information from pure boredom and disinterest.

“Hey Dean,” he starts with a grin as the door is shoved open and slammed closed, “I just—”

He breaks off at the furious look on Dean’s face. “Holy shit,” he breathes and his cock jumps to life in his jeans. Quickly, Sam scrambles up to a kneeling position, trying to give himself some kind of height.

“You,” Dean hisses each word out through his teeth in a separate breath, “ _fucking_ tease.” He grabs Sam forcefully by the shoulders and shakes him a little. Sam’s mouth drops open in surprise and the pink pout of his bottom lip makes Dean even more worked up than he already is.

“I could barely handle finishing our movie!” Dean snarls, shakes his brother again. “Thanks to you, I couldn’t clean up properly, so every time I moved I could feel what we had done. What you had done to me. Couldn’t stop replaying it.”

Sam, now turned on more than intimidated, his cock pressing painfully into his zipper, says, “I’m sorry?” He takes a risk and grins a little, just with half of his mouth and Dean growls, drags Sam close so he’s at the edge of the bed and has to put a foot on the floor in order to not fall.

Dean’s fingers are still pressing sharply into Sam’s shoulders, but Dean is shoving his nose into Sam’s neck, into the pockets of skin behind his ears. “Every time Allison tried to touch me tonight all I could think about was _you,_ ” he whispers, and feels Sam shudder heavily against him.

“I had to leave early,” Dean admits, scraping his teeth along Sam’s neck, under his chin, until he reaches the other ear, just like he'd been dying to earlier.

“Rule number two: Never leave a woman unsatisfied.” Dean nips sharply at Sam’s earlobe and can barely contain himself when he is awarded with a sharp inhale.

“You think you left her unsatisfied?” Sam’s voice shakes. His hands are holding on tightly to Dean’s elbows, his head tipped back to allow for access. Dean hums a little against Sam’s skin.

“Definitely,” he finally exhales against Sam’s chin and presses his hips into his brother’s.

Sam swears and leans back to look at Dean. He realizes that he had mistaken Dean’s anger for what it really was: Wildness. Dean looked like an animal ready to claw its way out of its skin.

“You got a rule number three?” It’s a dare, and Dean knows it, judging by the way his eyes flash dangerously.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and yanks Sam off the bed completely only to steer him towards the bathroom. “Take your clothes off.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Sam says cheekily.

“You’ll do what you’re told.” Dean says it like he did when they were in the library, with dark eyes heavy on Sam's.

By the time Dean turns the shower on, Sam has shucked off his shirt and jeans. Sam’s fingers are shoving messily at the hem of Dean’s shirt. What he lacks in finesse, he makes up for in urgency, and it’s hard for Dean to not just bend him over the sink and tear at Sam’s soft skin with his teeth.

They step in the tub and Dean pulls the milky shower curtain to the side so water doesn’t leak onto the floor. Sam hisses at the heat and adjusts it so it doesn’t burn. When he deems it more reasonable, he turns back to Dean and is instantly boxed in by Dean’s large hands, crowded against the tile. They are cool against his back and the contrasting temperatures send shivers down his spine, making him gasp. His cock is standing up against his belly and he wants to touch himself, aching with the need to come already.

“Rule number three,” Dean states, taking one hand away from the wall and gripping Sam’s wet cock, “never try to pull one over on your big brother.”

“Christ, Dean,” Sam grits out as Dean works his fist up and down Sam’s length.

“Stop swearing,” Dean chides mockingly and Sam wraps his fingers around Dean to retaliate. The hiss that Dean makes through his teeth gives Sam power, and he rubs his fingers over the slick tip.

“Make me,” he dares again. _Shut me up, let me blow you, let me kiss you, kiss me._

Sam can’t stop thinking about earlier, the possibility of Dean’s mouth on his own, and while his hand is still working at Dean’s cock he lifts his face to Dean’s and moves in.

Dean watches him and his mouth opens just a little, either in preparation of a kiss or in the pleasure from Sam’s hand. It doesn’t matter though, because when Sam gets close enough Dean turns his head, and Sam’s lips slide across Dean’s cheek to catch his ear.

“Don’t,” Dean shudders out, bucking into Sam’s grip. God, he’s losing it.

Now Sam is working his lips at Dean’s earlobe like he did earlier, all sharp teeth and soft groans. “Why not?” He breathes, arching up against Dean and raising a slender leg to rest over his hip. Dean swears and grips Sam’s thigh to hold him steady.

Dean can’t answer just yet, he’s trying so hard to concentrate on breathing without inhaling the warm water raining down on them.

He draws back and Sam releases Dean’s ear. They wear matching expressions of hunger.

Dean shifts Sam’s leg to rest his foot upon the edge of the tub so his legs are spread nicely. Sam’s hand is still stroking, curiously now, and Dean can tell that Sam is thinking about surging up to try for it again.

To divert Sam’s attention, he swats Sam’s hand away from his dick and bends his knees, positioning himself so that he can thrust against the underside of Sam’s balls.

“Oh, fuck, Dean,” Sam stutters out and his legs waver at the slide of their skin.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, half mad himself with how good it felt. He pats Sam’s leg, silently requesting that he lower it and when Sam complies, Dean turns him around and presses him against the tile.

“Dean,” Sam says, lacking anything else.

Dean’s hands slide down Sam’s slick body. It’s not a light, ticklish touch; there is pressure in his questing fingers. He grips Sam’s hips and grinds his dick against the crack of Sam’s ass. It’s such a shockingly good sensation that Sam moans and shakes. Dean does it again, then again. Again.

Sam’s fingers scrabble at the tile, unable to keep still. He turns his head to the side, flicking his hair back so he can look at Dean. “Fucking tease,” he says, and his brother grins. He stretches his thumbs over Sam’s ass and pulls the cheeks apart so the furled ring is exposed. He moves his hips slowly, making sure that the head of his cock catches at the hole before sliding over, keeping burning eye contact with Sam the entire time.

Sam, however, can’t keep it, has to shut his eyes on a moan. He moves his hips back, encouraging. Asking. It makes Dean a wreck.

“ _Jesus_ , Sammy, you want,” the question hangs in the air between them, wet as the water that clings to their eyelashes.

“Yeah, yes,” Sam breathes out. “Fuck me.”

Dean has to lean back, separate himself from Sam for a moment. He has to _breathe_ or he’s going to pass out here in this shower, with his brother begging.

Dean’s right hand slides from Sam’s hip, thumb massaging the dimple of his back, fingers moving curiously down the swell of his ass. His middle finger rests against the hole.

“This?” Dean asks, and Sam nods.

“Do it.”

Dean has to swallow, blink the water out of his eyes. Everything seems muted and too loud at the same time. The water beats against their bodies, Dean’s heart battles with his ribs, Sam breathes against his arms, braced on the wall, waiting, waiting.

Dean hopes the water is enough to smooth the way, and he works the tip of his middle finger inside Sam’s body.

Sam exhales at the discomfort.

“You good?” Dean checks, and Sam nods again. He continues to work the finger inside, and when it’s all the way in, he slides it carefully out, then shoves it back.

Sam makes an _oof_ sound, like he wasn’t expecting that, and Dean does it again. Sam moans, a heavy, shuddering sound this time.

“I figured out how to kill them.”

Dean stills for a moment, then resumes his movements.

“Interesting topic for what we’re doing,” he teases. “How?”

“It’s a knife. Silver,” Sam says between sighs. He shifts his hips, repositions his feet for a sturdier stance. “You have to twist the blade in their heart or they’ll just be pissed, not dead.”

Dean leans forward and noses Sam’s hair off his neck before licking at it. “Good work,” he says, a thrusts his finger in a little harder this time.

 _“Fuck,_ I nearly forgot.” Sam turns his face to look at Dean again. “You seem to have that effect on me.”

Dean laughs a little, warm inside.

“Your finger,” Sam gasps, “curl it up. Feel around.”

Dean complies, notices a spongy bubble of skin, notices the way another moan punches its way out of Sam when Dean rubs it.

“Prostate,” Sam explains breathlessly. “Do it again.”

Dean moves his finger from side to side first, stretching the opening a little as he carefully adds his pointer finger.

“Ohhh.” Sam draws it out into three syllables, and Dean crooks his fingers, presses hard into the patch of skin, and cannot believe how it makes Sam react. Cannot believe that he is doing this, that Sam is taking this so greedily, _cannot believe._

"How did you know that was there?"

Sam gives him another look that makes Dean chuckle. "One of us has to read, Dean."

He moves his fingers faster, thrusting them in and out of Sam’s body, jabbing into his prostate every few times or so. Sam loses the ability of speech, coming apart under two fucking fingers, and it’s the hottest thing Dean has ever seen in his life.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean marvels at the way his fingers disappear into Sam’s tight, hot body. He gently fits a third finger in, rotating and twisting them, wiggling until Sam startles and shouts.

“There, God!”

Dean feels monumentally dumb as he watches his brother press his hands forcefully to the tile and thrust himself back on Dean’s fingers, shoving them in deeper, harder. He works himself on Dean’s hand, and Dean’s cock is a weighty presence between his legs, demanding attention. But Dean is so transfixed on Sam that he can’t bear to take a hand away to do anything. He angles his fingers to what he thinks is the correct position and revels in the desperate moans Sam is making.

Dean leans forward, whispers in Sam’s ear, “You look like you’re going to come without even being touched.”

Sam moans again, high pitched and frantic, his hips moving strongly, erratically. Dean his stilled his hand and lets Sam do all the work.

“What are you waiting for, Sam?” Dean challenges. “Come for me.”

A sob is released from Sam’s throat as he works his body against Dean’s. Dean once again fits his cock under his hand to brush against Sam’s balls. He slides back and forth through Sam’s thighs and curses in Sam’s ear.

“Come for me, Sam,” Dean orders again, fitting his mouth to the top of Sam’s shoulder and sucking hard. Sam does.

The sounds he makes are incredible and shoot through Dean’s body like an arrow. It sounds like he’s crying, but the sobs are dry and his body is a trembling mess. Come is running down the tiles to be washed down the drain and Dean’s fingers are still deep inside Sam, until he obviously can’t handle it anymore.

Dean withdraws his fingers from Sam’s body carefully, other hand still holding tightly to his hip. He doesn’t actually think he can let go, and his free hand finds his cock and strips over it quickly, urgently. He comes with a shout against Sam’s shoulder, still mindlessly sucking on his skin, feeling drained. He leans back after a second and blankly watches the thick globs run down Sam’s back with the spray of the shower.

He wants to spread it all over Sam’s skin, shove it back into his waiting hole and leave it there. Dean is surprised by his own filthiness. He thought that was only something people did in filthy pornos so he squashes the urge, but can’t forget it. He’s taking in great gulps of air, unaware that his orgasm had left him so winded.

Sam’s back is clean now, and Dean can see the tremors of his skin, his arms as he holds himself up. He is whining softly, still coming down. Slowly, Dean turns him around and pulls him to his chest. They line up, knees, cocks, shoulders.

It’s funny how struck with desire Dean is at the feel of having Sam’s body pressed so closely to him, even after he’s just come. Sam’s eyes are wet and dark, his mouth open as he pants, and he clings to Dean like he had to the wall.

Finally, Dean turns the water off. Their heaving breaths are knocking around the walls of the bathroom, pounding back into their skin. They lean against each other, foreheads touching, noses grazing. Sam wonders if he tried to kiss Dean again, now, if he would let him.

But the sound of a ringing phone slices through their afterglow.

“Shit,” Dean says, and hops out of the tub, snagging a towel on the way.

Sam stays where he is, head feeling woozy and skin still sensitive. When the room stops spinning in circles, he too, steps out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist. He can hear Dean’s voice through the door and he sounds distressed. Though it is muffled, Sam can hear apologies, “no sir” and “yes sir,” and assumes it’s their father on the line.

He steps out of the bathroom cautiously. “Dean?”

His brother stands at the counter in his underwear. Any other words Sam may have said fall silent on his lips at the look on Dean’s face.

Dean isn’t even holding the phone to his ear, their father is so loud. He looks confused and hurt, and all the good sensations Sam’s shower with Dean had given him evaporate.

“Yes, sir,” Dean says. “I know it’s important—” he begins, but his father cuts him off.

 _“Then why didn’t you pick up the FUCKING phone?!”_ Dean cringes.

Even Sam can hear that from the other side of the room. His hand tightens on the towel around his waist.

_“I called six times, Dean.”_

“I couldn’t hear it,” Dean answers guiltily.

_“Why the hell not?”_

“I was in the shower.”

_“Then why didn’t Sam answer?”_

Dean flinches. “He—” Dean starts, but has no idea how to finish. He can’t tell him the truth, can’t say that they couldn’t answer the phone because they were too busy fucking each other.

John doesn’t wait for an excuse. He barrels on, drilling into Dean the name of the girl who was taken while they showered, the circumstances, piling on question after question. Sam slips on a pair of basketball shorts as he watches Dean’s eyes slowly darken, then dull.

Dean is shutting down.

Sam sees how Dean is on the phone, the way his posture and face changes, the way his answers are clipped, concise. Exactly what their father wants to hear.

_“Did you ever actually figure out how to kill the fucking monster? Or were you just wasting all that time?”_

“Yes, sir. Silver knife to the heart.” Dean’s hand is clenched in a fist, the other tight around the phone. “Give it a twist and they crumble.” There’s a pause, and if Sam thought Dean’s face had closed before, it went completely blank now.

“Yes, sir, I understand, sir.” He takes the phone away from his ear and looks at it for a moment with cold eyes, then flings it at the bed. It skips over the sheets like a smooth rock on a lake.

“Dean?” Sam asks, voice tentative.

“Mary Rowlands,” Dean says shortly, and Sam knows what he means. He still has the cold voice he was using with their father. “She was seven.”

Sam’s mouth drops open in shock. This is the youngest a girl has ever been taken.

“Seven goddamn years old, from her own front yard.” Dean is yanking on clothes thoughtlessly as he relays the information to Sam. “Her mom stepped inside for a minute, a _fucking minute_ , and she was gone.” Dean throws on a shirt blindly, steps into jeans like he’s made of metal and every plate is rusted.

“She lives in the trailer park just down the road. She was so close,” Dean sighs and scrubs a hand down over his face. “I could have done something.”

 _Careful,_ Sam thinks. He’s walking on cracked glass. “You couldn’t have done anything, Dean.”

“I could have done SOMETHING,” Dean insists while glaring hotly at the floor, “but I’ve been distracted.”

Sam can hear it even though it goes unsaid. _You’ve been distracting me. If you hadn’t kept me from working this case, she would still be with her parents. Your fault, your faultYOURFAULT._

Dean begins to laugh as he drags on his socks. It’s the helpless kind of laughter, the one that sounds so close to grief. He can’t do it anymore; he’s so heavy, so burdened with _Mary Rowlands, seven years old. Seven years old._

“Well, this was fun,” Dean says.

Sam doesn’t understand. “This?” he questions quietly, afraid of the explanation.

Dean scrapes his fingernails over his scalp. “You’re not a bad fuck, but this is done.” He looks at Sam and realizes he probably shouldn’t have. All he can see is the red, blotchy patch of skin on Sam’s shoulder, the hickey he’d created as his fingers were making Sam come. And then he sees Sam’s gutted expression, like all his veins were ripped out of him. Dean’s blood pulses, hot and angry, wanting and undeserving, inside. One by one, Dean steps into his shoes and continues to say all the terrible, filthy things that will make his brother feel as weighed down with guilt as he is.

“I mean, you knew this couldn’t go on, right?” Dean laughs a little again, a cold, harsh sound.

Sam’s voice is quiet and makes him sound like even more of a child. Like he’s just had a nightmare. Like he’s never been so sad and broken and scared, and it shoves nails into Dean’s heart. “I thought you—”

“Well, you thought wrong!” Dean cuts him off. “ _Jesus_ , Sam, I was just trying to be nice to you!”

Disgust drips from his voice and Sam shrinks in on himself.

“This shouldn’t have happened in the first place, it’s wrong,” Dean mutters and grabs the keys to the Impala from the counter. “You’re my _brother._ This was a mistake.” _You were a mistake._ Sam hears it loud and clear, and he visibly flinches.

He’s so confused. Sam can still feel the heat of Dean’s body against his. His memory can still differentiate the wetness of the shower cascading down upon them and the wetness of Dean’s mouth on his skin. He doesn’t understand how he can be so full of Dean, when right now the _absence_ of him is a gaping chasm within his own chest.

Dean starts for the door and Sam can’t help the soft question. “Where are you going?”

Dean turns and stares at Sam for a moment, pouring his shame, his heaviness, into their gaze. “Away from you,” he says, and Sam is left in the motel room, heart splintered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Sammy. :( I feel like a fucking jerk.
> 
> Two chapters tomorrow! We are almost done and I'm so hyped by the responses I've gotten from this story. I've never written something so long, (never actually finished one of the many chaptered stories I have knocking around in my head so this is a first for me), never had so many kudos, and I'm stupidly proud of this fic so thank you all for validating my needy ass!


	7. Chapter 7

**_October 30, 1998. Friday Afternoon._ **

 

 

Sam shoves the lore books aside and leans his forehead against the grain of the desk. He’s been here ever since school let out, loathe to go back to the motel and be around Dean, if he's even there. The disappearance of Mary Rowlands weighed heavily on Dean. Sam feels it weighs heavier on his brother than anyone else in the family. He supposes that could excuse the stinging words Dean had said last night, the recoiling.  _Strain of responsibility,_ Sam thinks to himself, but it doesn’t stop the hurt, the shame, the _guilt_. Trying to figure out where the Vetalas might be holed up feels so insignificant in the aftermath of Dean.

He breathes quietly, willing the headache spiking behind his eyebrow to go away.

“You’re Sam, right?” A soft voice interrupts him, and Sam turns his head on the desk to look at the speaker with squinted eyes.

Unsure, she softly lays her backpack down on his table. “We have Ms. Hotchkiss together.”

Sam lifts his head and thinks of the class they share. “Yeah, I know,” he says and smiles at her. “You’re Emily.”

She sits, grinning at the gesture of his hand and the offer of company. “How’s your paper coming along?”

“I’m done, actually,” Sam admits.

“What? We have the rest of the weekend!”

Sam shrugs. “I may not be here on Monday so she let me turn it in today.” He remembers staying up late the night before, mind carefully blank of anything besides his essay. He’d finished it in a haze at four and Dean still hadn’t returned. He refused to admit that the rest of his essay had been written through a fog of tears he hadn’t dared to let spill over. Sam had tried to stay up for his brother so they could talk, or at least attempt to, but it was clear that Dean wasn’t coming back and Sam fell asleep, still waiting.

When Dean still hadn’t returned that morning, Sam resigned himself to walking the 45 minute journey to school and being late for class. Sam was tempted to go through the rest of his day in a blank state of mind but now, with the distraction of Emily in front of him, he knows he can’t afford to do that.

He turns in his seat to face her better. “How’s yours coming?”

In a dry tone she says, “I feel like it’s being pulled out of me with torture instruments.”

Sam smiles sympathetically. “That bad?”

“I’m not too great at History. It isn’t like English, where I can stick as many fancy words in an essay as possible and it sounds great. I have to remember _facts_ and _dates._ ” Emily curls her lip in disgust, but it stretches to a smile when Sam laughs at her again.

She taps her nails against the wood. “You’ve been in here almost every day this week,” she starts, and Sam nods in agreement.

“I probably should have been,” she frowns. “This paper is killing me.”

Sam isn’t sure how to respond to that so he just nods again.

She looks outside, then back to Sam. “I need a break,” she declares and taps her finger on the table definitively. “Would you like to take a walk? You look like something is bothering you.”

Sam grimaces. “Is it that obvious?”

Emily smiles gently. “Not _that_ obvious. Whatever you’re thinking about or working on, it must be something important. The fresh air could help clear your head.” She’s reaching to get him alone and Sam knows it, but her face is so hopeful, and he really is sick of being in here. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything but Dean, anyway.

“Actually? It’s not important.” He stands from his seat. “A walk sounds good,” Sam says. He leaves his bag on the table, knowing no one will disturb it. There were only two other people in the library, quietly reading, and the grumpy woman behind the desk.

Emily wraps her buttery leather jacket tighter around her slim frame as they exit the building and she says, “There’s a trail going behind the building that’s really nice.”

“Okay.” She smiles at Sam again and he follows her.

It begins as concrete and tapers off to a thin, dirt path, covered in fallen leaves of sunset tones. The trees stretch out overhead as they walk, creating a canopy of branches half bare and leaves that are still clinging to their trees. The sunlight filters through, creating a mottled effect, though dark clouds threaten the horizon with rain. They walk quietly, the crunch of leaves under their feet a pleasing sound. Sam glances back to see the library and is surprised at how far they’ve already gone. The concrete path cannot be seen, and he can only see the top point of the building above the trees.

“You know,” Emily starts, shoving her hands into her pockets to keep her fingers warm, “my sister has a thing for your brother.”

“Everyone has a thing for Dean,” Sam says, not without bitterness.

“I think they had a date yesterday. She hasn’t shut up about it since last night!”

Sam grunts in response. The mention of his brother ruins the good mood Sam had collected in the past few minutes. The path is no longer inviting and magical—romantic, even—but is a nasty reminder of the way Dean pushed him away last night. Words paired like ‘brother’ and ‘wrong’ sting, and the rejection makes the world dull.

“Is something wrong?” Emily asks at his tone.

“Hmm?” Sam’s thoughts were still on Dean, but his brain caught up to her question in a short moment. “No, I’m good.” Resolutely he shoves the embarrassed hurt away, and tries to make up for his lack of attention. “Just worried about the grade for my History paper.”

“You’re going to do fine,” she assures, bumping him with her elbow. “You’re the smartest kid in class!”

Sam ducks his head, self-conscious at the praise. “Nah, I’m really not.”

“You are,” Emily insists, “and it makes Holly spitting mad. I love it,” Emily admits, and Sam chastises her with a laugh.

“Well I do! She’s a little slut,” Emily giggles and the sound weaves through the trees. “On Monday during gym I’m going to replace her shampoo with glue. We’ll see how perfect her hair is after _that_.” Sam is thrilled by the petty, vindictive nature of the prank, and Emily grins brightly at his enthusiasm.

“She’s never been nice to me.” The words bring a sudden sadness to her cute face and Sam returns her elbow bump.

“You don’t need her. She’s shallow and isn’t worth anything.”

“But I am?” Emily stops walking and looks at Sam from the corner of her eye.

A little smile brings out her dimples. There’s a blonde strand of hair escaping from her wool cap and it curls sweetly under her ear. Her hazel eyes are hopeful and Sam can see the interest in them. _She’s really pretty,_ Sam thinks, and wonders why he doesn’t feel anything for this funny, sweet girl. He doesn’t have the heart to turn her down; the feeling of Dean’s denial of him the night before is still fresh and he doesn’t want to inflict that same pain on her. Instead he smiles and takes off running down the path.

“Hey!” She cries, and gives chase.

Sam darts off the path and snakes through the trees, pausing at a split trunk to turn back and stick his tongue out at her, and to let her catch up. It’s a childish action but Sam doesn’t care. They’re laughing and he can’t remember the last time he ran without it being for training or for his life. After a minute or two, Emily wheezes out his name and Sam stops, his own breathing even and natural.

She’s bent with her hands on her knees, a healthy flush to her face and her eyes are sparkling. “How are you not out of breath?” She asks slowly, still trying to get her own back.

“I run a lot,” Sam says truthfully. “This is nothing.”

“You should try out for the track team,” she suggests. “You’d be a freakin’ star.”

Sam shrugs and says “maybe,” but he knows he won’t. They only have until the end of the week to find and kill the monster taking kids and then they’ll pack up and leave this quiet, colorful town.

Emily stands up straight, breath coming easier now. She brushes her hands down the black pleated skirt she wears, smoothing the fabric. When she lifts her face, her eyes lock onto something over Sam’s shoulder and cranes her neck for a better view. Her frown and shudder have Sam turning to look for what she sees.

“What?” He asks as his eyes gravitate to a hut in the distance.

“That place gives me the creeps,” Emily says quietly.

Sam doesn’t scare easy, but he’s getting an eerie feeling too, just looking at it. At first glance, Sam would have guessed the ramshackle structure is a hunting cabin, but he dismisses that theory with it being so close to town. It’s small, and appears as if it’s about to come crumbling down. The roof slants at an impossible angle with an old fashioned chimney stack at the top, and though he can’t make out any windows, Sam feels watched. A pale, uneven fence surrounds the hut with something rounded on top of each pointed rod. Though Sam squints, the place is too far away to see in detail.

“Does anyone live there?”

He hears the crunch of leaves under Emily’s feet as she scoots toward him. “Not that I know of. It’s just kind of… _there_.”

Sam wants to move closer and get a better look, but Emily tugs on his sleeve.

“Sam, let’s go, please.” She sounds scared, so Sam nods and leads her to the path.

They walk back to the library with mindless conversation on other things, but the weird hut lingers in the back of Sam’s mind.

All thoughts of it are wiped away, though, when Sam sees Dean waiting for him as they round the building and come to the library entrance. He’s leaning against the car, long and lethal, and Sam aches at the sight.

“C’mon, Sam.” The words are short and irritated.

“I need to get my things,” Sam says as Dean yanks open the Impala.

“Already got’em.” Dean folds himself inside and slams the door shut, temper rolling off of him like heat on asphalt.

Emily turns to Sam and gives him a little smile. “I guess you have to go?”

“Yeah, I’d better,” Sam drags his eyes away from Dean.

“I’ll see you at school, Monday?”

“Sure, Emily.”

She smiles and a little look passes over her face. Before Sam can make a move towards the Impala she darts forward and kisses his cheek.

“Sam!” Dean barks out, and Emily grins shyly before bounding up the library steps. Sam smiles at the warmth of her lips and circles the car.

Before he even shuts the door, Dean is peeling out of the parking lot.

“Dude!” Sam starts, really unwilling to deal with Dean’s attitude right now.

“The fuck was that?” Dean asks angrily.

“The fuck was _what_?”

“Do you think you have time to be running off to flirt with every pretty girl in town? We’re on a _case._ Kids are going _missing,_ Sam!”

Sam stares at his brother for a moment. “That has got to be the most hypocritical thing you’ve ever said.” He twists in his seat to shove his index finger accusingly at Dean.

“ _You’re_ the one who’s off fucking a new girl each night. _You’re_ the one who can’t keep his dick his pants for a single goddamn week!”

Dean darts into a turning lane, cutting off the truck behind him. The dark clouds from before moved faster than expected, and heavy drops of rain began hitting the windshield.

“So, what,” Dean spits, ignoring the angry horn blast. “You and that girl were alone just to _talk?_ ”

“Yes!”

Dean can barely hear through his anger, his unexplainable jealousy. His vision is laser focused on the motel in sight.

Dean’s mind supplies him with a scenario of them pressed up against the bricks, this _Emily_ moaning against Sam’s neck with a leg wrapped around his bony waist. He plays the scene out in his head as if he’s there, a voyeur watching from around the corner of the library.

Sam’s hand disappears between her thighs and Dean knows those long fingers are going straight for the warmest place. She jerks her hips up and forward, crying out and hanging on as Sam drives his hand into her wet heat under her skirt. Boiling with jealousy, Dean grips the imaginary bricks with his fingers until they hurt. He watches until she hurriedly removes her hands from around Sam’s neck to unfasten his jeans, to guide him inside her until they both tip their heads back in the pleasure of being connected. Until they look at each other. Until they kiss.

In the parking lot of the motel Dean slams on the brakes so suddenly that they make an ugly screech, and they both jolt forward with the force of the stop.

“Dean, what the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just jerks his way out of the car and to the door. Rain is pouring now, soaking their shoulders and backs. Dean tries to get his key in the lock but his hands are shaking.

“Can’t keep my dick in my pants, huh?” He grits his teeth, and finally the door swings open. He knows Sam is hot on his heels. The door slams behind them. “What about last night?” Sam freezes.

"Are you... jealous?" He asks, incredulous. Dean doesn't reply and that just sparks Sam's fury into an inferno. "You can't treat me like this just because you're  _jealous,_ Dean! Especially since _you're_ the one who—" but before he can finish, Dean spins and stalks forward to shove Sam hard in the chest.

“You're gonna keep ragging on me about the girls that I fuck but you won’t mention what _we_ did?”

Sam’s eyes harden and he shoves Dean in return. Obviously Dean wasn’t expecting the retaliation, and he stumbles back at the force of the push.

“That was _wrong,_ remember?” Sam says, throwing Dean’s own words back in his face. “What we did was a _mistake,_ REMEMBER?”

“Well what was I supposed to say!?” Dean explodes. “While we’re here, another kid is being taken. Right down the road and I’m too busy fucking my little brother to save her life. Of course it was a mistake!”

Sam feels slapped.

“I’m supposed to protect people while Dad is away,” Dean continues. “I’m supposed to take care of _you_ , and I can’t do that if all I can think about is how badly I wanna touch you.”

Sam blinks in surprise. This wasn’t quite the outburst he was expecting. “Dean,” he starts, but his brother barrels on.

“I can’t do anything anymore without thinking about my hands on you, and the way you react.” Dean’s voice is passionate with his guilt. “God, Sammy, I’m your _big brother._ Those aren’t things I’m supposed to think about. Those aren’t things I’m supposed to want! It isn’t normal!”

“Stop thinking about what you’re _supposed_ to think and want!” Sam yells, close to stamping his foot in his frustration. He’s watched Dean shoulder blame and guilt until he wonders how his brother is still standing and he’s sick of it. He’s _sick_ of it.

“Stop thinking about what’s normal!” Sam clenches his fists is his fury. Thunder crashes outside, echoing their fight. “Our entire _lives_ aren’t normal, Dean. You can’t compare _us_ to everyone else. It doesn’t work like that anymore! Not since Mom died and Dad began dragging us around the country to hunt things the rest of the world doesn’t think is real.”

“Yeah, Mom and Dad would be real proud if they knew what we’ve done this past week,” bitterness seeps through Dean’s tone, “and if they knew what I wanted to do.”

Sam’s stomach flips over despite how mad he is. His big brother looks angry, sad, guilty, and Sam still finds him to be beautiful.

“What do you want to do?” Sam demands, and wonders if the question will just get Dean’s back up again, get him mad and back to shoving Sam away, but he has to know. He _has_ to.

Dean tips his head back and sighs, like all the fight just flew out of him. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, entirely subdued.

The tone of the room has flipped drastically within that sigh. Sam takes a step towards his brother and asks again, softer. “What do you want to do to me, Dean?”

“Wanna touch you again." He says it immediately, like he's speaking half asleep and unaware of what he's saying. "Wanna get my hands on you, make you come again. You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Dean’s eyes flick to Sam. “You have no idea what it does to me.”

“Show me,” Sam says, heart rate kicking up. _He wants me,_ he thinks madly. _He_ wants _me._

Dean turns to face his brother. “I wanna kiss you, Sammy.” He says it like it’s the thing he’s most ashamed of in the world.

Sam feels knocked over with the weight of those words but he steps forward again, curls his fists into Dean’s shirt. “Then kiss me,” he demands.

Dean shakes his head frantically. “I can’t.”

“Kiss me just once, and I’ll never ask again,” Sam pleads. “Then we can forget it happened. We can forget this entire week. Just once, Dean.”

But they both know that it would only take once, and they’d never be able to stop.

“I—” Dean can’t get the words out, but he can’t do it. His mind is empty. After a few seconds of Dean still shaking his head, Sam’s eyes go cold, hard, and furious.

“Fuck you, Dean,” he spits, and he shoves his brother away, makes for the door.

Suddenly, Dean’s mind is a frantic place filled with fragments of _can’t let him walk away, can’t let him go, can’t,_ and Dean strikes out a hand lightning fast to catch Sam’s arm, turn his younger brother around and hold Sam’s face in his hands.

 _Can’t let him go,_ Dean thinks once more before his lips are on Sam’s, before Sam can do anything at all, and it’s rushed and perfect even though their teeth knock, and it only lasts an instant before he pulls back.

Dean’s hands are still cradling Sam’s jaw and Sam’s eyes are wide open in shock. Judging by the shift in Sam’s eyes, Dean thinks that Sam may take a swing at him—and Dean would probably let him land the hit—but that pissed off gaze only has Sam lunging forward, wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck as he kisses back.

They don’t speak, mouths far too busy for talk as they maneuver backwards to fall gracelessly to their bed. First Sam is underneath Dean, panting with his hands everywhere. Next thing Dean knows, he’s underneath Sam and still doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, but he can’t get enough of the taste of his little brother.

Fresh, sweet. Furnace-hot and everything he’s not been letting himself think about for _days_. And now it’s in reach, on top of him, biting at his lips and saying his name when it all becomes too much. All Dean can think is that he wants more, wants to _give_ more.

Suddenly, Dean is a man possessed, crushing his mouth against his brother’s like he’ll never be able to do it again in this lifetime. They grapple and rotate, wrestling for a good grip on clothing to tug and remove layers blindly. It’s a hot, sweaty mess on top of the bed, and Sam thinks he might die from loving this so much.

He gives just as much as he gets, biting and sucking at Dean’s lips, neck, fingers, any skin he can get his mouth on. He pauses only to let Dean draw his t-shirt over his head. When Dean presses his fingertips, still cold from outside, to Sam’s nipples he cries out in shocked pleasure. The rough pads of Dean’s fingers rub harshly over the peaking nubs, and Sam never thought he would be one to get stimulated from this, but here he is, jerking and thrashing on the bed and feeling like a hook is digging into his naval and pulling him up, up, up. He’s right at the precipice and he chokes out the desperate sound of his brother’s name.

Dean takes his hands away and works briefly to get Sam’s jeans undone and off. Dean’s never needed Sam naked more than he does right now, and his desire is dangerous. He peels off Sam’s underwear and doesn’t waste any time in wrapping his lips around the red, weeping tip of Sam's cock.

Sam bucks at the sudden heat, gasps at feeling so overwhelmed. Dean returns his chilled hands to Sam’s chest, pulling, pinching, rubbing at his nipples and trying to keep Sam still.

It’s so much, so quick, and Sam shudders out a hard “ _oh”_ as he comes down Dean’s throat.

Dean gentles his fingers and softens the movement of his tongue and lips and Sam comes down, shaking and mumbling. His hands stroke up and down Sam’s torso as Dean rises up to meet Sam’s mouth.

These kisses are different. They are slow and open and wet, relaxed and sloppy. Sam thinks he could spend forever kissing Dean.

He whines a little into Dean’s mouth, hands fumbling for the buckle of Dean’s belt. Dean laughs a little against Sam and backs up off the bed to shuck off the rest of his clothing. He does so without ceremony, but it seems so much more erotic to Sam, lying naked on the bed and watching his brother undress.

When Dean returns to lay over Sam, they slot together perfectly. Their cocks are nestled together, hard and soft. Dean languidly rolls his hips, cock sliding in the cavity of Sam’s hipbone. He’s sucking quietly on Sam’s throat and Sam is running his hands down Dean’s arms to find his brother’s. He laces their fingers together, nudges at Dean’s head until he tips his face up and they can kiss again.

Those slow wet kisses don’t stay slow for long. Sam moans into them, loving the way he hears the breath catch in Dean’s throat with his arousal. After only a minute or two, Sam feels himself hardening again and he juts his hips up against Dean’s. It makes him break away, mutter “ _Christ,_ ” and return to Sam’s mouth with fervor.

Sam frees his hands from Dean’s and places them on Dean’s shoulders. He sucks on Dean’s bottom lip, shoves gently at his brother’s shoulders in a silent request.

They flip so that Sam is straddling Dean’s hips and he grinds his erection down upon Dean’s. Dean exhales heavily and Sam leans down to speak quietly against Dean’s ear.

“I want you to _really_ fuck me.”

Dean’s hands fly from where they were resting beside him, to cupping Sam’s ass. “Sam,” he breathes.

“I want you inside me. I want _this,_ ” he emphasizes, taking hold of Dean’s prick and sweeping his thumb over the top in a quick movement, making Dean swear, “inside me.”

Dean can’t speak, can only imagine what it will feel like. He has to grab Sam’s wrist to keep him from continuing to touch his cock for fear that he might come right them. Sam babbles on, rushing to get the words out before Dean can say no.

“I’ve wanted you inside me for days, weeks, _months._ I wanted you even when I told myself it was wrong. You thought you were the only one? I thought I was just as bad as the things we hunted.” Sam brings the hand around his wrist to his mouth, draws a finger into his mouth and sucks on it slowly, affectionately, his eyes scrunched closed with the confession.

“I’ve wanted you my whole life, Dean.”

Dean abruptly yanks Sam to his chest and uses his arm to flip them. Sam is crushed under Dean’s weight but moans softly when Dean ruts against him once, twice, then stills. Dean buries his head in the crook of Sam’s neck and breathes hotly against his skin. They are quiet for a moment, Sam petting at Dean’s freckled shoulders before Dean presses a tender kiss behind Sam’s right ear.

“Get on your knees,” he asks, and Sam obeys.

It’s hard to look at Sam like this, on his knees and elbows, head hanging so he can look at Dean with molten eyes from the side of his arm. Dean strokes a finger down Sam’s spine and over the round curve of his ass, across the delicate skin of Sam’s upper thigh. He shivers and Dean looks at his face.

“Tickles,” Sam whispers softly.

Dean’s mouth is unexpectedly dry in anticipation and he drapes himself over Sam’s beautiful, tanned body to kiss his bony shoulders. His dick naturally rests at the crack of Sam’s ass, and Sam wiggles at the weight of it. Absently, Dean thrusts his hips a little and Sam moves back against him.

All at once, Dean feels an urgent need to be inside Sam.

“Hang on,” he tells Sam, and gets up to retrieve the lubrication Dean kept in the bathroom. The room gives him the memory of Sam shoving his ass back frantically onto his fingers in the shower and it makes Dean’s hands shake.

The bed shifts with Dean’s weight and Sam spreads his knees a little more to give Dean more access. His cock hangs hard and heavy between his legs but he resists the urge to touch himself. He wants this so badly he wonders if he’ll be able to come without being touched. The thought makes him moan brokenly.

He hears Dean say, “I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you right now,” and the quiet honesty makes Sam’s heart jump. He hears the cap of lube snap open, the wet _schluck_ of the gel falling onto Dean’s hand, and Sam twists his head to look at Dean over his shoulder.

“Touch me,” he asks, and Dean obeys.

The first finger is cold, shockingly so, and Sam jolts away from the uncomfortable sensation with a gasp.

“Sorry,” Dean whispers and rubs his fingers together for a moment to warm the substance.

When Dean’s finger returns, petting softly at the fluttering ring of Sam’s ass, it isn’t quite so cold and Sam relaxes into the touch. It slides in easily and Sam sighs with relief. Dean pumps the finger in and out a few times before adding a second coated finger.

Sam screws his face up, feeling tight and nervous, but Dean is patient with him, stretching his fingers slowly and rubbing at the small bundle of nerves that makes Sam tremble and feel weak. He presses and pets at it until Sam is gasping, fingers curling into his palms and stretching out over and over, unable to stay still for a moment.

“Dean, please,” Sam shudders. “Another.”

Dean withdraws his hand, much to the disappointment of Sam, and adds more lubrication to his fingers. He figures three fingers won’t be pleasant, even after taking them last night, so he steadies Sam by putting his other hand on Sam’s hip and holding on. They slide in easier than expected, and Sam rolls his hips back to meet them, enjoying the stretch and burn, the fullness of Dean’s fingers.

Watching Sam move back on his hand is ridiculously, shamefully sexy and Dean has to take his hand away from Sam’s hip to close tight around his dick. He can’t come yet, he _can’t._ He’s got to be inside that heat, has to feel the clench of Sam’s hole around his cock. Dean swallows, shifts his position on the bed. His fingers are moving fast now and Sam is meeting each thrust, his breath coming quick, a word exhaled here and there. A curse, a prayer. Dean’s name.

He presses a hand against the wall to allow himself to push back against Dean’s hand even harder, and Dean watches his fingers disappear all the way up to the third knuckle.

“Christ,” he marvels at Sam’s wild movement, his unrestrained need, so much like he had been in the shower. Something inside Dean clenches. “I bet you could take four, couldn’t you? Bet you could come again, just from my fingers in your ass.”

“Dean,” Sam moans. “Please. Inside.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees breathlessly and removes his fingers from Sam’s body.

He whines at the loss and Dean lines himself up, red tip at the stretched, empty hole when Sam cries, “Wait!”

Dean stops but it is an act of willpower, the need to bury himself in Sam is so great.

“Lie down,” Sam says as he brushes damp hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“Oh,” Dean says, at a loss for anything else to say. He rolls onto his back and watches his brother, with all his long legs and shaky, aroused limbs, carefully straddle him again. He holds himself up and grabs for the lube Dean had dropped on the bed, adds a generous amount to his palm before slicking Dean’s cock up.

“Sammy,” Dean grits out through his teeth as Sam strokes him. “Don’t—” he cuts off, the effort of splitting his concentration to talk and keep from coming proving too difficult at the moment.

Sam loves the feel of Dean’s cock in his hand, loves the heat of it, the juxtaposition of soft skin and being hard as steel. He loves to look at his brother like this, wrecked and needy, loves knowing that it’s because of him. Because of them and what they are doing.

He lines up Dean’s cock with his entrance and slowly lowers himself down.

Dean holds his breath, hands flexing on Sam’s knees as he sinks and sinks. He feels like it takes forever for him to be completely sheathed inside Sam’s body, and when he finally feels Sam’s ass against his thighs, he breathes out in relief.

Sam pushes himself up and nearly off, then slowly grinds back down in curve. It feels incredible and Dean moans Sam’s name. For a moment, Sam repeats the motions, his breath quickening from the strain of his legs supporting his body and keeping his movements controlled. Dean’s never experienced anything like this before and it leaves him watching his brother in wonder, this fascinating creature that moves as if he’s known Dean’s body like this for years. He takes a breath, wanting to say something, anything, but the air is stolen from him almost immediately as Sam rises up and slams himself back down. Dean jerks with the sudden movement and he stares at Sam’s face of concentration.

There’s sweat running down the side of Sam’s face, traveling down his cheek to drip off at his jaw. His mouth is slack with pleasure, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. His hands are pressing on Dean’s stomach, helping to lift him up before he comes lurching back down. Each time their hips meet, Sam’s face instantly relaxes into a soft smile, almost triumphant, before it creases again.

The expressions kickstart Dean into action. He reaches for Sam’s hips and helps to haul him down each time in powerful movements, snapping up as best he can at the same time.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Sam babbles, the bed creaking threateningly with their force.

“Harder,” Sam demands, voice thick with desire.

Dean draws Sam’s body down against his and flips them, slipping out as he does so. The loss makes Sam say Dean’s name with urgency and Dean moves a hand to guide himself back to Sam’s entrance, then slams inside. The crazy, blissful smile on Sam’s face is addicting. Dean needs to see more of it, now, always.

“Wrap your legs around me,” Dean says as he gets a good grip on Sam’s hips.

Sam hooks his ankles together behind Dean’s lower back, and cries out when Dean yanks his hips forwards to meet Dean’s harsh thrusts.

“Fuck!” Sam cries, hanging onto Dean’s arms as their movements make the headboard crash repeatedly into the wall.

Dean feels the sweat race down his back as he pistons his hips forward. He thinks he might die from the heat of Sam’s body, the sweet clench of his ass, the gorgeous noises he creates that make it difficult for Dean to concentrate on his rhythm. He hooks his hand behind one of Sam’s knees and pushes it down towards Sam’s face.

At the new angle, Sam’s eyes pop open and his mouth drops with pleasure. “Dean, there!” He nearly sobs at the feeling, the same sensation as the night before, when Dean had ruthlessly abused his prostate until he came. The memory bids Sam’s hands to move, and one flies down to his cock to tug at it quick and harsh, the other reaches up to grip the top of the headboard.

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean pants, watching the white-knuckle grip on the wood of the bed and the frantic tug of Sam’s hand. _He’s going to come,_ Dean thinks, delirious with sensation. He has the strange thought that he is a mousetrap, sprung and waiting for the tiniest amount of pressure before releasing.

Sam starts to say his brother’s name one last time, but the sound breaks off as he feels all that heat and pressure that had filled him, spill loose. He shakes, and breathes, and endures the warring sensations of relief and the continuous onslaught of Dean, burning, above him.

Odd, Dean thinks, that Sam would be so vocal the entire time, and completely silent when he comes. Odd, and beautiful, and just what Dean needed. The deep strain of Sam’s body as his orgasm hits chokes the breath out of Dean and his hips stutter, unable to escape the tight heat of Sam’s body. He turns his head and presses his lips to Sam’s slender ankle as he shakes, swears, and releases.

Sam watches his brother come with a drowsy smile and wet eyes. They had watered with the force of his orgasm and Dean’s form is slightly blurred because of it, but he is still the most stunning creature Sam has ever seen, and he wishes he could suspend time in this moment.

It doesn’t take long for Dean’s breathing to get back under control and he laughs a little as he looks at Sam, sprawled and crooked on the bed, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead in wet strands, and his smile is soft. Filled with adoration. Carefully, he pulls out of Sam’s body, ignoring the wet sound they make as they part, and gently lowers Sam’s legs to the bed.

Sam winces slightly at the stiffness in his knees, but he stretches them out and makes room for Dean beside him.

Silently, Dean turns back the covers and they both crawl under the sheets. Sam uses the far corner of the sheets to wipe off his chest, then pillows his head on Dean’s shoulder and slides a leg between Dean’s. He tips his head back and says “hey” quietly.

Dean smiles at him and turns his head so his can kiss Sam. It’s short and soft, and Dean revels in the little sighs that escape Sam’s lips.

“Are you okay?” Dean whispers, feeling that anything louder will break the strange spell. The rain outside has softened from the raging storm, and the soft pitter-patter of it against the window is comforting.

“Perfect,” Sam answers. His hand is spread out on Dean’s chest, still slightly damp from exertion, and he is filled with wonder at this situation. “Are you?”

Dean pauses before answering, long enough that Sam looks up at him with a puzzled expression.

“It’s never been like that for me,” he starts, his words carefully calculated, and almost shy in the way they are presented. “I’ve never felt like that with a girl.”

“Is that a good thing?” Sam worries at his bottom lip with his teeth.

Dean presses his lips to Sam’s hair, smiles against his brother’s scalp. “Never thought it _could_ be that way.”

Sam ducks his head against Dean’s chest to hide his foolish grin.

They are quiet and Sam drifts off to Dean running ticklish circles on his back with his fingertips, a smile on his face.

He barely hears the phone ring.


	8. Chapter 8

**_Friday Evening._ **

 

 

Dean places the phone back in its cradle and sighs, hand absentmindedly petting the soft skin of Sam’s bare back. The rain has stopped completely by now, leaving the room quiet and peaceful. Sam has his arm wrapped around his brother and makes a noise of dissent when Dean moves to sit up. His head slides to the pillow.

“Sam.”

He hums in response, eyes closed and remembers how it felt to finally have Dean inside him. Sam’s body reacts and he presses his hips against Dean’s leg, rubs his length along Dean’s thing.

“Sammy, we need to talk.”

Instantly Sam’s eyes pop open. He props himself up on his elbow and says, “Is everything okay?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face before he answers. “Dad called. Another girl has been taken.”

“His town or ours?”

“…Ours.”

There’s something about the heaviness of Dean’s tone that makes Sam sit up, too. “Who was it?”

Dean doesn’t respond right away and just looks at his brother.

“Dean, who was it?”

“Emily.”

Stunned, Sam jerks back. “But I…” he starts, swallows, and tries again. “I just saw her a few hours ago.”

“I just got off the phone with her sister. Apparently, Emily was supposed to be home by four. At five her parent’s hadn’t heard from her and were unable to reach her. They started to worry and called the police a couple hours ago. After the other disappearances this week, they weren’t going to wait the full 24 hours before filing a missing persons. She hasn’t turned up.”

Sam still doesn’t quite know how to react. He bites his lip thinking, _if only I stayed with her at the library she wouldn’t be…_ it’s hard to finish the thought.

“Hey.” Dean gives Sam’s shoulder a quick shake. “Stop it. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam says quietly.

Dean sighs and flops back down against the bedsheets. His fingers reach out to stroke softly at Sam’s bony hip. “You can’t carry that kind of guilt,” he says. By the sound of his voice, it seems he is speaking from experience. “It’ll ruin you.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, he just stares at the blinds and the inky blackness behind them.

“I just wish we had something to go on,” Dean admits to the ceiling. “Dad says he’s got a lead, but he’s a few counties away and it’s Friday. We only have until tomorrow,” he frowns.

“You think Dad is lying?”

Dean shrugs. “I think he wants there to be a strong lead when all he has is a weak one.”

Sam hums noncommittally, and thinks back to Emily and the library.

“At this point, there isn’t even a trail of breadcrumbs.” Dean smiles, commiserating with Sam, and is glad to see him smile back.

Briefly, the image of the fairytale flits through Sam’s mind. Flickers of young ones lost in the forest and of a terrible witch who fattened wandering children before eating them.

He feels like he’s been given a good smack to the head and scrambles to get off the bed.

“Whoa, little brother, what’s the rush?”

“Dean, we have to go to the library right now.” Sam looks pale and panicked as he yanks on the clothes Dean had relieved him of an hour ago.

With Sam looking so seriously freaked out, Dean doesn’t question why and gets up to dress as fast as he can.

The ride is silent and hurried, Sam twisting his long fingers in the loose denim of his jeans. When they get there, Sam hops out of the car before Dean can even throw it in park. He has to jog after Sam’s quick pace to catch up with him.

The library is a bright, quiet place this time of night. Almost all of the tables are empty, save for the one regular, frantically studying. Sam makes a beeline for the children’s section. He drops to his knees to read the thin spines carefully.

“Aren’t you a little old for these stories, Sammy?” Dean quips, but the joke falls flat. He isn’t used to seeing Sam so anxious and it makes him worry, gives him nasty little sensations that crawl up and down his spine.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Dean asks as Sam yanks a book from the shelf and flips through it hurriedly. Dean can’t really get a good look at the words but the illustrations on each page are dark and leave a spooky impression.

Sam looks up at Dean, face pinched. “It’s not a Vetala.”

“What?”

“The thing taking girls! It’s not a Vetala,” Sam insists, standing and heading to the single computer the library has available to patrons.

Dean is close on his brother’s heels. “I thought you said—”

“I was wrong,” Sam bites out. _How could I have been so STUPID?_ “I was really wrong.” Sam is typing frantically, snarling in frustration when there aren’t any results and the young woman behind the desk tonight turns to ask in a bored tone if they need any help.

“We got it, thanks,” Dean waves her off. She shrugs and returns to checking books back into the system.

Sam clicks around a few more times, his fingers making sharp snapping sounds against the keyboard, and makes a small noise of triumph before deleting the searches and pushing away from the computer.

Dean chases after Sam down the endless rows of bookshelves. “Sam, _what_ is going on?”

“Dad said it was a monster taking kids so I looked for monsters that fit the method. A Vetala fit the bill, except for the fact that Vetala hunt grown men, not girls. Not children!” Sam is running his fingers along the spines of books, searching for the right combination of letters and numbers. “It always bugged me because it didn’t fit the profile. The most important fact didn’t match, but Dad acted like it didn’t matter so I never pursued it.” Sam is speaking fast now, tripping over his words and slurring the sentences together, but Dean understands what his brother is trying to say.

“Okay, so if it’s not a Vetala, what is it?”

“It’s a witch.”

“Excuse me?” Sam might as well have just said it was their father. “You’re telling me that a witch is what makes these girls disappear?”

Sam withdraws a book yellowed with age and opens it, flips to a page at the beginning.

“Not just any witch. It’s Baba Yaga.” He shoves the book into Dean’s hands.

“What the _fuck_ is a Baba Yaga.”

“Not what, _who._ ” Sam points at a crude depiction of an old woman with skin brittle and dry as the desert and a scarf wrapped round her head. A long necklace of tiny skulls lay around her neck and she wore one earring, heavily beaded, that made her earlobe drag down to her chin. Her teeth were filed and sharp like a shark’s, her eyes dark and sunken in.

“Gross,” Dean mutters and flips a page, reading on.

“She’s one of the most famously told Russian folk tales,” Sam explains. “Parents would tell their daughters that if they were bad, Baba Yaga would come take them in the middle of the night.”

“The fuck,” Dean breathes out, eyes skimming a passage here, a passage there.

“She’s pretty much the Slavic Boogeyman,” Sam says as he snatches the book from Dean’s hands and flips a few pages forward.

Still trying to wrap his head around the idea, Dean runs a hand through his hair and rubs his palm heavy over the back of his neck. He doesn’t like the sudden change in target, but he trusts his brother. “Okay,” he begins, “so what does she do with these girls once she takes them?”

“She, ah,” Sam’s voice wavers uncomfortably and he doesn’t look up from the text. “She eats them.”

“Jesus,” Dean shudders.

“Yeah.”

“How do we kill her?”

“Weapons don’t work on her.” Sam ignores Dean’s groan of frustration and moves his finger down the page, lips mouthing words he doesn’t say aloud. He taps the book after a moment and looks up at Dean. “We have to burn her.”

“Great, that’ll be fun,” Dean sighs. “Now we just have to figure out who and where she is.”

“The book says she can change her form so she won’t look like Baba Yaga.”

“She’s gonna look normal? Even better,” Dean complains.

“She has to be someone recognized in town,” Sam rationalizes. “Emily must have been taken from this building or very close by… not a teacher, but maybe someone who moved here a few years ago?”

“Let’s go take a look at residency records,” Dean says and heads back towards the library entrance, Sam behind him with his nose still in the book.

Dean stops at the front desk and shoots his most charming smile at the woman.

“Hi there,” he grins. “Can you tell me where the residency records are kept?”

She chews her gum slowly and pops a large, pink bubble as she fans a stamp dry with her hand. Her disinterest makes Dean frown.

“No one gets access to the residency records without a signed form.”

“Okay,” Dean draws the word out into three syllables. “Can I get one of these forms?”

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.” Another _pop_.

“What? Why?”

She sighs, obviously annoyed by the conversation. “I don’t have them.”

“Well who does?” Dean snaps.

She slams the book she’d just stamped closed and stands to stare at Dean at eye level.

“Look, man, I only started working here this week. I don’t _know_ where the stupid forms are, I just know it’s a rule.” She shoves a finger into Dean’s face. “I need this job and I’m not going to lose it because some _idiot_ is impatient and rude.” In a huff, she sits back down, leaving Dean stunned and silent. She nods, a jerky movement, satisfied with herself. “You’re just going to have to wait until Ms. Rislevich gets back tomorrow.”

At the hard ‘K’ of the head librarian’s name, something prickles unpleasantly at the back of Sam’s mind. He closes the book on Baba Yaga and racks his brain while Dean begins to argue with the desk worker again.

“I don’t see why you can’t just give me the records.”

“ _It’s against the rules_ , Jesus, are you deaf?”

Their voices are background noise to Sam as he thinks, desperately thinks, and then pales as his eyes catch the nameplate of ANTONIA RISLEVICH: HEAD LIBRARIAN.

“Dean.”

Dean rests his elbows on the desk and leans forward. “Well then, can you give your boss a call and ask her where the forms are?”

“Are you out of your _mind_? She’s sick! And it’s late.”

“Dean,” Sam says again, but Dean ignores him.

“It’s one phone call!”

“It can wait _._ ”

“It’s _important_!”

“It’s _not happening._ ”

“DEAN!” Sam says sharply, cutting Dean off from saying something that was bound to be extremely rude.

“What?”

“We don’t need the records.”

For the second time tonight Dean wears an absolutely bewildered expression. “The hell do you mean ‘we don’t need the records?’”

Sam turns to the desk worker. “Has Ms. Rislevich been out all day?” He knows that he saw her earlier before he’d left with Emily, but he needs it confirmed.

She frowns at Sam before shooting Dean a dirty look, reluctant to reply, but answers anyway. “She’s been out since three. Said she wasn’t feeling well and called me in.”

“Thank you,” Sam says and places the book on her desk before dragging Dean out of the library and towards the Impala.

“Sam, what are you doing? We need those records!” Dean yanks his arm out of his brother’s grasp and turns to go back inside. “We don’t have time for—”

“I know who she is.”

Dean stops in his tracks and Sam pats the trunk of the Impala as a signal to open it.

“What?”

Sam pats the trunk again, insistently. “Baba Yaga. I know who she’s posing as.”

Dean fishes the keys out of his pocket and tosses them to Sam.

“Well? Who is it?”

“Ms. Rislevich.” Sam wrenches open the trunk and lifts the false bottom, displaying an impressive array of weaponry.

“The librarian?”

“I was so goddamn stupid, I never noticed.”

“Noticed _what_?”

“Today, Ms. Rislevich left around three. Emily and I went on our walk just before that and I saw her watching us as we left. We got back about fifteen minutes later, but I didn’t go back inside and Emily never made it home by four. I bet if you checked her schedule it would show you that she wasn’t working at the times the other girls were taken.” Sam picks up a sawed off shotgun, shakes his head and replaces it. “Also, Russian last names commonly end with ‘evich.’”

At Dean’s squinting face, Sam elaborates. “It fits with Baba Yaga’s Slavic origins.” He nods and moves to help pick out weapons with Sam.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Dean asks quietly.

“I’d bet my life on it,” Sam replies solemnly.

“Yeah, well, you’re not betting your life.” Dean grabs a long, sharp blade and studies it for a moment, turning it so the moonlight glints off the tip, and sticks it in his jacket. He looks at Sam and his green eyes are bright. “You’re betting theirs.”

“I know.” Sam looks at his brother for a moment and wonders about the girls that were taken. He prays that they’re still alive.

Dean shuts the trunk with a frown on his face. “We still don’t know where she is or where she’s keeping the kids.”

“I think I know that, too,” Sam whispers and looks toward the path he and Emily had taken only hours before. He thinks about the hut tucked carefully away in the dying trees, and hopes they aren’t too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me and leaving kudos, and feedback. You have no idea how much it means to me. Everything fell into place for this story to be created and I'm so proud of it. We're almost done guys! Final chapter in just a few hours.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Friday Night, 11:00pm._ **

 

 

The woods are transformed at night. Everything seems heavier, darker, even with the full moon lighting their way. The path seems thinner and the trees seem to gather closer together, creating sensations of claustrophobia.

“Are you _sure_ you know where you’re going?” Dean asks for the umpteenth time and Sam grits his teeth against irritation and the cold.

“ _Yes,_ Dean.” He looks behind them and can barely see the library. Only the top of the building can be seen if he squints, the roof barely illuminated against the shadow of night.

They had taken a little time to gather the weapons they needed and even that had felt too much. They barely had any left…

“I started running about here,” Sam mutters quietly to himself, then louder to Dean, “A little bit further down the path and then I went left.” They keep moving and Sam looks off into the woods, shining his flashlight on the trees, searching for the split trunk he’d paused by. It takes a few more minutes of slow walking and careful scanning, but Sam finally sees the split trunk in the distance.

“There,” he says to Dean, and they veer off the path.

The chill is creeping into Sam’s hands and he grips his flashlight a little harder, struggling to feel his fingertips against the frozen metal.

“Let me,” Dean offers, and take the light from Sam. Grateful, Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets. He won’t be any use if his fingers are numb.

When they pass the trunk, Dean asks, “Exactly how deep are we going?”

Sam bites his lip. “It’s a little ways in. It took a while running. Everything looks different now…”

Dean frowns but doesn’t press and they walk on in silence. After a little while he asks, “How did you even know about Baba Yaga?”

Sam looks down at his feet as he kicks wet leaves aside. “When I was littler and you would drop me off at libraries to go hunting with Dad, I liked to read fairy tales.” He shrugged. “I knew what you were doing out there, and maybe it was silly, but it gave me a sense of normalcy. You know, like the only monsters in the world were inside books and I didn’t have to worry about you getting hurt out there.”

He shrugs again and veers off to the left, recognizing the trees better in this area of the woods. “Anyway, I read a lot of collections of fairy tales and in some of them, the Russian folktale of Baba Yaga came up. It was weird and different, and it kinda stuck with me.” The cold has begun to make Sam’s nose run, so he wipes it off with his coat sleeve.

“And earlier, when you were trying to make me feel better, you mentioned a trail of breadcrumbs. It made me think of Hansel and Gretel and the witch who wanted to eat them, which somehow made my mind jump to the story of Baba Yaga and suddenly everything seemed to fall into place. All the victims had several accounts of bad behavior at school and at home, but I didn't think much of it until realizing it was Baba Yaga. I had to check, though, and that’s why I wanted to go back to the library.”

“My brother, the genius,” Dean grins, and Sam shoves at his arm playfully but he can sense the pride in Dean’s teasing tone.

Sam feels filled with warmth for it and wishes it could have lasted longer.

It is harder to see in the darkness but Sam puts a hand on Dean’s chest to make him stop moving. Neither of them can make out many details—it looks to be more of a vaguely crooked shape—but there is nothing else it could be.

They have made it to the wooden hut.

They creep closer, and as they do, the architecture becomes much clearer. The uneven fence is made of bones, dirty skulls acting as the rounded points Sam had seen from a distance. The sight of it makes his skin crawl, and it’s a much taller fence than he’d figured. Too tall to climb over without knowing how sturdy it was, and with open spaces wide enough to get a good look through, but not enough for Sam’s slim frame. Odd; It hadn’t looked that tall from his distance with Emily…

Sam’s eyes slide over the windowless hut, and notes that more bones make up most of the framework. He assumes they’re human and has the sensation of his skin being covered in roaches.

“Not that this _couldn’t_ be the place we’re looking for,” Dean swallows thickly, “but are you one hundred percent sure?”

Sam points at the chicken feet he sees on top of the soft soil that surrounds the foundation. “She must have had to adapt a bit over the years to stay hidden.”

“Right, because a house on stilts of chicken feet would be a bit _too_ weird.”

Sam hears Dean muttering as he walks the perimeter of the fence. By the low sound of frustration in his throat, Sam assumes Dean didn’t see a door.

“How the fuck do we get in?” He asks, beside Sam again. He looks curiously at the fence and moves to kick it down but Sam grips his arm and yanks him back.

“No! It’ll tell her we’re here!”

“How can a fence rat us out?”

“The legend says it's just as alive as she is.” Sam thinks and thinks hard, trying to remember what he’d read because he _knows_ the answer was in the book.

“Well then, genius, get us in another way.”

“I’m _trying,_ ” Sam snaps impatiently. He bites his lip hard, focuses on the pain of it instead of the wet cold, the fear. Suddenly, he remembers the line about the children who spoke certain words to make the house turn around and present a door to them.

He looks up at Dean, brushes his bangs out of his face. “Let’s hope she adapted in other ways too, because I don’t speak Russian.”

He takes a deep breath and speaks firmly at the house. “Wooden hut! Wooden hut! Turn thy back to the forest and thy front to us!”

Like the image of a VCR rewinding a tape, the house seems to shift and break apart in jerky movements, start-stopping like a scratched record.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes. He half expects the house to be closer, bigger, a great looming presence, though he and Sam haven’t moved a muscle. The wind picks up and sends a chill racing through Sam’s bones. Dean shifts so that his arm is pressing up against Sam, sharing heat and courage.

The house stills and its image sharpens. Now, they see windows brightly lit from within and a crooked door, obviously hand fashioned. Sam can guess what it was fashioned from, but he’d rather not have it confirmed just yet.

Even the fence was modified—a crude padlock in the form of a small, skeletal hand is now wrapped around the posts. With a disgusted curl of his nose, Dean lifts the fingers and the ugly screech of bone on bone makes the short hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand up. The gate swings open and they move quietly across the wet leaves.

Sam peeks into one of the windows carefully while Dean makes his way to the door.

“I don’t see anyone,” he hisses at his brother, uncomfortable at the fact.

There isn’t anything on the thin front porch that would suggest to Dean a spare key was hidden there, no potted plant or welcome mat. He almost laughs at the image of Baba Yaga with a _Welcome Home_ mat on her front porch.

“We’re gonna have to pick the lock,” he says as Sam joins him.

Sam pauses, crouches to look at the keyhole.

“Dean,” he whispers with horror, “it’s made of teeth.”

Dean’s stomach threatens to rebel on him when he bends and sees human teeth broken and sanded into the classic shape of a keyhole. “That is just _so_ fucked up.”

“I don’t hear anything inside,” Sam says, nerves hiding just under his tone.

“Me either,” Dean agrees. “I don’t like it.”

“Just hurry.”

Dean takes a knee, withdraws his lock-picking kit from his back pocket, and sticks the flashlight between his teeth. It takes him a little longer than usual to hear the quiet snick of the lock, but when he does, he silently replaces his kit and stands. The flashlight is back in his hand, arms outstretched and wrist under wrist with his gun aimed forward when he turns the door knob slowly. He hopes that the door won’t creak as the craftsmanship suggests, but it swings noiselessly open.

Dean moves in ahead of his brother on instinct. It’s a very open floorplan, which he is grateful for. The first floor—Dean makes note of the lopsided, suspended staircase against the left wall—seems to consist of only the kitchen. A large kitchen, perhaps, but the kitchen only, nonetheless. It makes Dean uncomfortable. The house had felt bigger from the outside and in here, he felt cramped. Trapped.

“I _really_ don’t like this,” Dean repeats.

There is a large cauldron, so large that Dean thinks you could easily fit a young girl inside it, in the center of the room that stands over a low fire. Flames lick at the bottom of the iron but extend no further. The cauldron hisses and bubbles menacingly. Dean quickly turns on the flashlight and stuffs it in his pocket.

“First of all,” Sam begins in a whisper, “that is extremely stereotypical of a witch and it gives me the creeps. Second of all,” Sam points at what is floating in the thick, gray liquid, “I’m pretty sure that’s a rib, and it’s not from a cow.”

“Take a look around, but be careful,” Dean orders, keenly aware of warning prickles on the back of his neck, and Sam nods.

He heads to the right of the room, circling around the cauldron and trying to ignore the ingredients inside. He notices the counters and cabinets, the gleaming knives sitting on a cutting board with leftover slices of onion beside it. Everything is colored faintly orange from the fire in the center of the room, but it is a dying flame and Sam knows they will need to use their flashlights again soon.

As his head swivels lightly, like his father taught him, he notices Dean moving cautiously up the stairs, and the shadows that are playing differently on the wood walls below him. An alcove?

Sam creeps closer and he sees the form of a person slumped low against the wall, facing away from him. From his angle all he can make out is a shoulder, and yellow curls.

He steps into the alcove and realizes it isn’t that at all. It’s a doorless pantry, and there isn’t one person in it, but two. One of them, the blonde on the floor, is Emily.

Sam crouches beside her and says her name in a harsh whisper. “Emily?” he shakes her shoulder roughly. “Emily!”

She lolls her head to the side to stare at him, expression blank. She says nothing; her only movement is to blink.

Sam pats her cheek with his hand hoping to rouse her, but gets little result save for the sound of her breathing.

“Dean!” Sam calls as quietly as he can, and Dean is back downstairs in an instant. “Emily’s alive, but I think she’s in shock.” Sam notices the dried blood on her hands and clothes, and doubts that it belongs to her, judging from the poor dead girl beside her missing an arm and staring at the wall with milky, sightless eyes. There is vomit on the floor beside Emily and traces of it dried on her chin. Sam’s heart breaks for her.

“I’m so sorry, Emily,” he says as he holds her face gently with his hand and wipes the streaks of sickness away from her skin.

“At least she’s alive,” Dean says, still examining the room, still feeling those uncomfortable tingles on his skin. “What about the other girl?”

Sam looks at her again. _This must be Mary Rawlings_ , he assumes. She has a sweet, rounded face, and he thinks that she would have grown up to be beautiful, with mounds of dark curls and her chocolate skin. Anger and shame boils up inside of him when he looks at the blood soaked sleeve hanging limply from her shoulder, where the rest of her arm should have been.

“She didn’t make it,” he says, wiping the tear that springs unbidden to his eye angrily away. “Must have bled out.”

Dean swears quietly. His eyes hop around the room from the sink to the dried bunches of flowers and herbs that hung from the walls. The house is hot from the fire, and Dean feels sweat run down the side of his face.

“Where the fuck is she, Sam?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replies tersely. He tries again to rouse Emily.

She blinks at him slowly and her eyes focus minutely on his face.

“Emily? We’re gonna get you out of here.” Sam tries to maneuver her arm over his shoulder so he can help her to stand.

Her face falls into the crook of his neck and with his ear so close, he hears her whisper, “She’s coming back.”

“What?”

Her voice is soft and monotone. “She only stepped out for more wood.”

Sam draws her away from his body and watches her face smooth out at she returns to her blank expression. He lays her gently back against the wall.

“Dean, we need to get out of here, _now._ ”

As if summoned, the door swings open and Mrs. Rislevich is in the doorway.

Immediately, Dean fires twice, one bullet catching her left shoulder, the other square in her chest. She stumbles and tilts from the force of the bullet, but straightens.

“Those have no effect on me.” Her voice is thick and rounded with the Slavic accent, her expression furious, but contained. She bleeds lightly from the wound, nothing like the damage a fatal gunshot would produce.

“Oh, I know, that was just for shits and giggles.” Dean speaks through clenched teeth, but nonetheless, he keeps his gun trained on her.

Sam keeps behind her, putting himself between Baba Yaga and Emily, trying to figure out exactly how to set her on fire and get them out of the house before it goes up in flames. He’s not fond of the plan that forms, but it’s the only way.

Quickly, he darts back to the other side of the cauldron to hiss at Dean, “I have a plan; keep her busy!”

“You better fuckin’ hurry,” Dean says, and puts his gun away to draw out a knife in order to keep her attention close on him.

He lunges at her while Sam runs the other direction, and gets the blade into her skin, making a sizable slice. She stares at it, furious, and looks up at Dean.

The air around her wavers like the shimmer of heat on asphalt, and the form before them was no longer that of the cranky woman behind the library front desk, but of Baba Yaga.

“Little girls are my favorite,” she spits, “but I would make an exception for you and your _brother._ ”

“Yeah?” Dean says. “Just try it, bitch.”

Sam is searching as fast as he can, trying not to be too loud so Baba Yaga’s attention isn’t drawn towards him, but what self-respecting cook of _any_ cuisine doesn’t have fucking canola oil in the kitchen? He looks inside cabinets and under the sink, finally slinking back into the open pantry to search there. It’s the last place it could possibly be, and Sam could shout with joy when he actually finds most of a gallon tucked under a shelf.

He unscrews the top and starts sloshing it around like gasoline. He soaks her counters, her cabinets, the floor, the first few stairs and part of the walls before the container is nearly empty. He’s very careful not to let the liquid reach the cauldron and the fire underneath it just yet.

“Dean!” He yells, “Get Emily out of here!”

Dean spins out of the way of Baba Yaga’s clawed fingers and yells back, “I’m not leaving you!”

“Just fucking do it!” Sam screams, hiding the oil behind his back because now, he has the witch’s attention. She turns and snarls at him, stalking forward. Dean swears and sheathes his knife, rushing to the pantry to pick up Emily bridal style. Leaving the hut with her in his arms and without Sam is incredibly difficult, but he trusts that Sam knows what he’s doing.

Baba Yaga looks him over with dark eyes and Sam is disgusted by her heavy gaze, her sharp teeth and the cruel reminder of her diet. He feels slightly cornered without Dean to have his back and his hands are shaking, but Emily is safe, and Dean is away from the hut.

 _Please stay away,_ he begs silently, hoping that Dean won’t return to help.

“I will suck the flesh from your bones, then use them as a door knocker,” Baba Yaga states, inching closer. “My old one is worn out, but she tasted delicious.” She grins, a horrible stretch of her skin.

Sam is trembling with his fury, with his fear. “You’re not going to hurt anyone ever again,” he says, and Baba Yaga lunges forward.

Sam splashes the canola oil in her face and she jerks back, not expecting the viscous liquid. Sam trails the last inch or so to the bottom of the cauldron and springs back, already running for the door, knowing the accelerant is all over his shoes and maybe his hands. They’d been standing so close to the cauldron, and Baba Yaga is wiping at her face, howling in her frustration.

The world pauses for a moment; nothing happens and Sam doesn’t dare look back, but he can feel the abrupt rush of heat against his back. He flies out the front door so he doesn’t see the fire eat up the oil and spread, flare powerfully into Baba Yaga’s face, but he does hear her awful screams.

She lights up like a goddamn bonfire, walking the flame around her house in pain and panic, tongues of it licking and finding all the oil that Sam had splashed around.

As Sam run further away from the house, he hears this terrible screech like metal on metal, cars colliding and collapsing upon their plates, and it emanates from the wooden hut itself, as if it were truly alive as she and is in incredible pain. He nearly turns around to see what is happening, but then he notices Dean just a little further away, a safe distance from the hut that Sam had set ablaze.

Sam is still running, running straight into Dean’s arms and so glad to feel Dean’s hands on him, rubbing him down and checking for wounds.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, she didn’t touch me,” he whispers over and over but it isn’t enough. Dean isn’t satisfied until he has patted Sam down completely, then draws him tight to his chest once more.

Finally, the screams die and all they hear is the crackle of a giant fire, feel the incredible heat on their faces even from so far away. A great crack echoes through the woods as the hut collapses inward. It seems so anticlimactic, Sam thinks as he watches the sparks pop and wood weaken. The fence, strangely, has disappeared. He hadn't even noticed it was gone when running away. The danger of the situation has disappeared, the gruesome aspect of Baba Yaga is buried under her home.

Sam looks over at Emily, propped dazedly against a tree trunk. She is safe, alive, and whole, and Sam’s whole body seems to relax, not even realizing how tense he'd been. It’s a damn good feeling, saving someone, even if it was only one person.

Sam’s heart finally seems to slow as he leans against Dean.

“You did good in there,” Dean says, and Sam flushes at the praise.

“Don’t ever fucking ask me to leave you like that again.”

“I was afraid you would come back.”

“Nearly did,” Dean admits, and draws Sam closer to his side. “But then I saw you run out, and I could breathe again.”

Sam huffs out a laugh. He feels grimy and a little singed even though the fire never got to him. It was a little too close to his liking, and he’s ready to wash this case off his body.

They begin to hear sirens in the distance—no doubt someone has called the fire department—but thanks to the rain from earlier, the inferno isn’t spreading to the surrounding trees. Everything is still damp and soft, deterring the insistence of the flames.

Sam wonders if this is really the end of Baba Yaga, if a fire was enough to kill her. He starts to frown, because what if what he did wasn’t enough? What if later on, more girls get taken and eaten and—

“Hey, Sammy?” Dean interrupts Sam with a fond look down at his brother. Sam’s worries are instantly derailed. The fire is reflected in Dean’s green eyes, the orange glow showcasing the freckles tossed over his nose, and he’s smiling. He grabs Sam’s hand, rubs a thumb over the back of it.

“Yeah?”

“Happy Halloween.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone! A thousand HUGE thank yous to everyone who read this, took the time to comment or leave kudos or bookmark it. I had such a blast writing this and I'm thrilled by the positive feedback that I got. You guys are awesome! My kingdom, for you all.
> 
> You have no idea how many different stories of Baba Yaga I read in preparation for this story. I mixed and matched, but for the most part, I tried to stay true to her folktale. It's my favorite, and I've always been a little sore that SPN has never had an episode featuring her. Therefore, I had to write my own, sort of. HOPEFULLY, you enjoyed this so much that you'll come back and read it again sometime!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](www.shiverwhispers.tumblr.com) and be my friend.


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